Full Circle
by Alicia Pascal
Summary: The Pirate ship Black Arrow is in need of crew members. To solve the problem the Captain turns to kidnapping. In Sarentre he takes two orphans, but soon finds out that one of them had met with pirates before and didn't like the experience.
1. Sarentre

Chapter1: Sarentre  
  
It was a typical early summer day in the little town of Sarentre, where year after year passed without bringing much change or big events. The regular brawls in the taverns and whorehouses were generally ignored and bodies removed in silence. But that was the lower part of the town, the part that welcomed whomever came there as long as they brought money. The upper part of town very much ignored the lower part. There, Sarentre was an unimportant but peaceful town.  
  
Spot, tall and lean, barely seventeen summers in age, was on his way to one of the many vantage points in the bay, as usual, taking his time, also as usual. The sun shone hot from a bright blue sky, obscured only by a small wisp of cloud here and there. A steady wind was blowing, playing with a thatch of unruly light brown hair that looked like every single strand had been cut to a different short length. The sun was already high in the sky but still at an angle which made it shine directly into his green eyes. Spot didn't raise his hand to shade them, though, but rather squinted as he gazed out at the port, then slowly around the bay and finally beyond all that out at the ocean, as far as he could see.  
  
There was no hurry, he judged. Given the tide and current wind there would be no ships coming into port for the next few hours. That meant free time for him. With a gleeful smile Spot turned and headed back towards town.  
  
It wasn't the shortest way but out of habit he took the route along the shoreline and through the port before he turned his back to the water and entered town.  
  
The part of town nearest to the port consisted mainly of taverns, some shops, whorehouses, and warehouses--places where sailors could relax, have fun, or replenish their supplies. These parts were most awake during night although already the streets were filled with people. Spot walked right past these quarters and further up the hills towards far more respectable areas. Finally, almost at the farthest end of town, at the edge of a small wood he reached his destination: a small, unremarkable looking baker's shop.  
  
Two minutes later he Spot was out in the dusty back yard behind the shop with Christopher the baker. In reality Christopher wasn't much of a baker and had only taken on the trade after he married Charlene who had insisted on settling down to a simple and quiet life. Other than with baking, he was skilled and deadly with the blade, as Spot had found out on the first evening after his arrival in Sarentre when he had been caugh stealing-or trying to steal-bread from the bakery.  
  
Almost two months after the incident the youth had worked up enough courage to return to the shop and ask Christopher for lessons. It took a lot of persuasion, but the man had finally agreed to it.  
  
Now, after almost a year of trainig both parties had grown accustomed to their regular fencing sessions and were almost equally looking forward to them, although for different reasons. Christopher was only too happy to leave the shop solely in the able hands of his wife, who was effectively the one running the whole place anyway, and spend a few hours with his eager and as it had turned out rather talented student.  
  
*****  
  
Usually, Captain Marcus enjoyed coming into port. Usually. He did not, however, favor pirate towns, despite technically being a pirate himself. Unfortunately, pirate towns were also the only ones where he could land without having to worry about the authorities, so he usually ended up in those. Still, he didn't mix well with the men typical of his profession. *Temporary profession,* he corrected his thinking. He had plans for a better, safer life than the one he currently led.  
  
It was the beginning of the summer of 1685, and Marcus loved this time of year. The seas were less predictable, but beginning to calm down before the wild season of storms to come later on. This was a good time of year to pick up crew who had had to sit out the winter in some port. Many would have already set sail, and those that were left were either the best of the lot, temperament-wise, or the worst. Marcus wanted the the former and definitely not the latter.  
  
That was why he had kept the Black Arrow, his best ship to date, far enough out and hidden behind a land swell that it was not visible from the shore of the bay. Sarentre could be a mean little port, and Marcus wanted to find a couple men to add to his crew. But he did not want typical pirates. So he and two men slipped ashore in darkness between tides and hid their longboat. Then they began a walk through the town, to look out for possible canditates.  
  
Marcus wore his best clothes, which would mean he would not stand out as either rich or poor. Few noticed the middle-class, and he liked to go unnoticed as much as possible. His two crew members, who had accompanied him, were dressed in the typical seaman garb--canvas knee pants, cotton shirt, each with a scarf about his neck. They were each heavily armed, as was Marcus. That was to be expected in a town where pirates made their homes. Braces of pistols, cutlasses--and hidden, or in some cases not hidden, knives.  
  
Marcus' sharp, blue-green gaze scanned everyone and everything, looking always for something that caught his eye. Almost immediately he noticed a young man with an open, kind face, working nets with deft hands and a quick turn of the shuttle. He had dark hair and would look up now and then from his lantern. He had an alertness and ableness about him Marcus liked at once. He nodded to his two crew companions, and they split up and set off in slightly different directions.  
  
Marcus continued on, his shoes feeling tight and strange on his feet. He'd been at sea for awhile, and hadn't worn this pair of shoes much. His feet were used to freedom.  
  
He paid that no mind but casually walked on. He found a comparatively quiet spot in a tavern farther inland, away from pirate haunts, where the lasses wore higher bodices and less cheek tint, and their minds were on delivering food and drink, not on parading themselves before customers. He admired these lasses quietly while he had a meal and an ale--good ale, he thought, enjoying it and the well-cooked beefsteak and potatoes. He could not help but splurge on bread and pie. He bought two pies and carried one with him as he left the tavern.  
  
When he went back to the longboat to wait out the night, he found his two crewmen already had their first capture with them - the young man who had been working nets earlier. He was bound and gagged, and not in a good mood-- as was to be expected. Evenso, he did not look mean. "Row him out to the ship," said Marcus. "Be back before it gets light. I'll sleep on land tonight. Have the men keep a good eye out tomorrow, for if they see us coming, they should have enough sail up that we can get out in a hurry if we need to. There's not much going on right now, but that can always change. If there's trouble, send for me." He looked over the lad, now captive and going-to-be crewmember. "You look like you'll do. Tis a good ship I have, and I'm a good Cap'n. You could do a lot worse. We won't hurt you." Clear, bluegray eyes stared back at him, and the lad seemed to nod. "Take him to the ship. Put him in the hold. You know what to do." He added to the lad, "You'll only be there till morning."  
  
Come morning, Marcus brushed sand and dirt off his clothes and went back into town. His two crewmen, James and Scar, joined him soon enough. A nod between them told Capt. Marcus that the longboat was hidden where they would find it when they needed it. They breakfasted in the same tavern where Marcus had had supper, and James and Scar dove into their meatpies and biscuits with a will! Marcus had the same, but could not resist another beefsteak. Again, he bought two pies for himself. The three of them left the tavern very full and very satisfied. They went back to the bay, to see if any ships had come in while they were occupied with eating. None had.  
  
But right away, someone caught Marcus' eyes: another lad, younger than the other, but sharp of eye and wiry of build-with the worst haircut he had ever seen. *I wonder who won the bet on how many different lengths it would end up?* But there was something else different about this one. He motioned his men to go find something to do, but to keep close enough to him he could signal them when he was ready, and he unobtrusively followed the young man back into town.  
  
Marcus followed the lad to a bakery on the farthest edge of town. Odd...but his quarry vanished within, and so Marcus went inside after a bit and looked around. He liked what he saw of the place, and thanked the woman behind the counter for the breads he bought. She had kind eyes, and a wedding ring on her finger, so Marcus gave her no more thought. He wondered where the lad went, but since he must be her son, he was probably in the kitchens, preparing dough.  
  
Hm. Strange. Usually his instincts didn't play him false like that. Marcus had a knack for finding orphans and this boy had seemed like one, maybe not the perfect candidate, but interesting enough to have alerted his instincts. He shook his head and left the bakery, feeling a strange disappointment.  
  
Instantly he turned to the left and went to the fence behind the bakery. Judging from the sound that could be heard from there, someone was practicing swordplay back there! And they were going through drills! From the sound of the steel, they were using good blades, too! Marcus had time on his hand so he decided to watch.  
  
He peered through a narrow break in the fence and was surprised to see the young man and a bigger man going through drills. A nice Spanish sword was in the lad's hand, and the older man was using a nice weapon, too. He was the teacher.  
  
After about an hour of drills, they went into a match.  
  
So, the lad was just a student. A promising one, too. And he had a nice style, Marcus could not help but notice. Raw, needed more polish, but not bad! He used a main gauche style, knife as well as longblade. Intriguing. But the match didn't last long.  
  
Marcus was fascinated. He had no technique at all with his own cutlass, but could still have taken the lad, although he realized not the older man, who was deadly in his refined technique.  
  
In a second Marcus had made up his mind. If the young man was an orphan, he was going to come with them when they left port. Whether he wanted to or not. There was something about him. Something familiar.  
  
Which was odd, since his sleeves were rolled up and neck widely exposed against the heat of the practice. Marcus had himself covered. He always had himself covered. As he watched the lad, the delicate features and lean body, he wondered how he'd ever managed to keep away from some pirate captain with an eye for young flesh. *No worries from me,* thought Marcus. But the lad was handsome. And just right for stealing by some cutthroat pirates. He'd be doing the lad a favor, really...   
  
  
  
Marcus continued to watch the fencing match. Those were really good weapons, but the Spanish sword was a real beauty. He started to wonder why the older man let the boy use such a prized weapon. Maybe it was his.but how did a lad like that come to own such a treasure? Marcus decided he would steal that sword. Somehow. *****   
  
"Watch your feet."   
  
"Where's your balance?"   
  
"Your weight is still too far back."   
  
"Good."   
  
"Sloppy."   
  
"You're getting too bold."   
  
"Better."   
  
"You did it again!"   
  
"Didn't you promise to work on that?"   
  
"Careful now."   
  
"A little more accuracy here, please!"   
  
"Gotcha!"   
  
These little duels tended to be very much alike, with Christopher continuously making comments while Spot concentrated hard to hold off the inevitable moment when he would end up on the ground or trapped in a corner - wherever - with or without his weapon. The only thing that was for sure was that he lost these matches.   
  
Today it ended with Spot on his butt almost in the middle of the backyard, his sword still in one hand, but with the tip of Christopher's weapon resting on his breast in a way that very much suggested that in a real fight he would be quite dead.   
  
"You are learning." Christopher said, giving Spot a quick salute before he held out his hand to help him up. Grinning, Spot took the offered hand and scrambled to his feet. He was covered with dust again, but didn't make and effort to brush it off just yet.   
  
"Thank you. Today I managed to hold my ground for...how long? Fifteen minutes?"   
  
It didn't sound like much, but it was a great improvment to the very first time they'd fought that night in the bakery. Then, Spot had been pinned to the ground within no more than three seconds and it had nothing to do with bad luck.   
  
He was just about to look around for the knife that he'd dropped earlier when Christopher added:   
  
"But you're getting a little sloppy with your footwork again lately. We'll have to work on that some more, kid."   
  
Spot knew it was true and therefore didn't even try to defend himself. 'Sloppy' was a word used quite often when it came to describing his footwork, which was strange since he had learned long ago never to be sloppy and generally wasn't. He found his knife and picked it up before he got a quick glance at the sun and turned to accept his teacher's criticism with a simple nod.   
  
"Make that our plan for tomorrow. I'd better go down to the port now. Thank you for today's lesson."   
  
After a quick but very fond goodbye, and munching on a large slice of bread that Charlene had put into his hand on his way out Spot made his way back throught the streets towards the lower parts of the town.   
  
It was time to get to work.  
  
  
  
Once he was down at the port Spot fell into his usual routine, which consisted mainly of being as inconspicious and invisible as possible. Seemingly aimlessly he moved around, drifted into and out of groups of people as he watched the crews of the various ships land and move up into town. He avoided looking directly at anyone for more than a second but memorized faces, caught bits and pieces of conversation and finally picked his target for the day.   
  
His target for the day was a dark-haired man with an unremarkable face but remarkably broad body who by the looks and sound of it carried enough money that he wouldn't miss a few coins if they were taken in a clever way, and who apparently planned to spend the rest of the day getting drunk for the fun of it. And he didn't seem like the brightest guy either. Perfect. The man was talking vividly with his friends who were dicussing the best place to go and have fun, all loud enough for an attentive listener to understand . They decided on the 'Southern Star'.   
  
Since it hadn't taken long to find out where they were headed Spot didn't bother to follow them but hurried down a side street and was already strategically seated in the designated tavern, a drink in his hand, when Toine - that's what 'Target' was called by his friends - arrived.   
  
During the next few hours he followed Toine's lead in getting drunk. That is, Spot played getting drunk while he watched those around him do the real thing. At one point he entered the group's conversation by praising a place and establishment that he knew nothing about, but none was sober enough anymore to realize that he only repeated what others had said earlier. From that point on he was accepted into the group.   
  
Things went as planned, mostly. The only problem was that Toine showed no signs of getting drunk any faster than his companions did, which presented a problem for Spot's plans. But that was only a detail and easily fixed.  
  
At an opportune moment, meaning just when Toine's glass was empty, Spot offered a toast and then, staring at the empty glass with carefully unfocused eyes, said in a neatly blurred voice:   
  
"Oh, chu're ouddof drink..."   
  
He jumped up - not too fast and sure-footed of course - and relieved one of the serving girls of another full glass, dropped a small amount of powder into the liquor and returned to the table.   
  
Two minutes later the glass was empty and knowing that the powder would do its job Spot crowned his performance with a graceful collapse on the floor, followed by a soft snoring. Toine followed ten minutes later.   
  
Now came the part that often demanded quite some patience. Sometimes Spot had to lie there for hours, always in danger of being trodden on by some drunk customer, while pretending to sleep deeply. Today however it didn't take long until strong, helpful hands moved Spot and the second sleeping figure outside and into the fresh air, dumping them unceremoniously on the street behind the tavern.   
  
Once the closing door cut off the light from inside the tavern, he stopped snoring, stopped being drunk, stopped his performance almost altogether. He quickly put Toine's arm around his shoulder, pulled the man up and, like a drunk supporting and equally drunken friend, moved down the street and into a dark alley where he would have some privacy. The man was heavy, but even so Spot decided to move quite some distance. He was careful not to develop any kind of pattern in where he took his targets to relieve them of some of their money. Some. He never took all, that would be too dangerous and draw attention that he didn't want. The way he worked was designed to maximize the chance that in the morning the victim wouldn't remember much, especially not how much he had paid for drinks, so a few missing coins could easily go unnoticed. It was Spot's way to keep himself safe and invisible, so he could go on and use the same tricks again and again. There were only so many tricks that would work without calling attention to himself.   
  
*****   
  
Marcus watched with rapt attention as the lesson continued. He nodded, and winced when the knife went flying, for it looked wickedly sharp and knives tended to make him nervous in any situation. But his eye was caught both by the young man and that lovely sword he was using. Somehow...   
  
He would have both of them. That haircut meant the boy was only a student, and there was something odd about that, too. It was almost as if he were paying off a debt, since no money exchanged hands after the lesson.   
  
Ah, the young man left and headed to the port. He would be easy enough to find, then. Marcus watched closely, and as luck would have it, he saw where the Spanish sword was put. The backdoor was left open, too. Landsmen never learned...First he had to see to it that the big man was distracted. He had already seen that he could not win a fight with him, and he didn't fancy putting a lead ball into the man just to get that sword, no matter how beautiful it was.   
  
Marcus headed off to find James and Scar, who as ordered had stayed nearby but out of sight, and whispered some words to them.   
  
A little while later, Capt. Marcus re-entered the bakery. He approached the proprietress and asked very humbly if he could buy all the bread they had to spare. "My sloop, the La Lune, is anchored offshore, and we are low on bread. Could I inquire whether you have another batch baking? I'd be pleased to purchase as many loaves as you could spare."   
  
They struck a deal, and a special batch would be made. It would be ready by nightfall. "Perfect, Madame," said Marcus, bowing. "Tide shifts not long after, so the timing could not be better. I will send respectable men to gather the loaves. Thankee kindly."   
  
Outside again, Marcus handed his two huge sacks of breads to James and Scar, and told them to wait. He watched through the fence as the big man went to work in another room....   
  
It took but two minutes to swing silently over the fence and sneak in, and moments later, he had the Spanish sword stuffed in one bulging sack that would never be suspected of also holding a beautiful fencing instrument. "Take the bread and this sword back to the ship, and return quickly. Put the sword in my cabin, and don't play with it! I'll know from your faces if you disobey me. Then get back here. We're going after that young fellow, but I think now isn't the right time. I'll follow him, you get back as quick as you can. Bring Langan, Broderick, and Clancy--in their best clothes--to load up the fresh batch of bread. You two, find me quick as you get back, and we'll go after that boy."  
  
  
  
Marcus had a hard time finding his quarry, but he knew how to look around, and soon enough spotted him again. The lad was moving through the crowds in a manner that made him almost invisible for someone who didn't particularly look for him. And it was amazing, but just from watching, he figured out what he was doing. *Picking a mark,* thought Marcus, and realized with a little sinking sensation that if he could see it, sooner or later it would be noticed by someone who would use his pistol before he gave it a thought.   
  
*I really am doing the kid a favor. He's going to get himself killed.*  
  
But his curiosity was stirred and since there was no particular hurry he might as well see how he intended to rob his mark. The captain followed liesurely, and stayed out of the way in the tavern, a rather dark and noisy tavern, but certainly not the worst place in town. From his place at nearby table he had a good view.   
  
Marcus shook his head. The kid had style. And he was slick. No doubt about it. He had the right stuff. But he *would* get himself killed if he played this game much longer. No matter how carefully that young man picked his mark, sooner or later he would make a mistake. Marcus wondered if he even noticed the other man, working on another mark across the tavern. If the lad ever chanced to pick the same pirate to rob...   
  
Best not to think of that. Marcus paid for his light meal and ale, and went outside. Scar and later James found him soon. They had brought the necessary equipment to carry out another kidnapping. "Good. Now, let's stay out of sight."   
  
They did, and when the mark and the young thief were tossed out, apparently blind drunk, Marcus shook his head again. *Not bad, not bad. But dangerous.*   
  
He led the way, after seeing where the thief dragged the pirate. Marcus whispered, "We're not giving up on that fat purse, either. Don't forget that. And mind, no pilfering for yourself."   
  
They all blocked the alley. It was a dead-end alley, with no exit. Barrels and old crates were stacked up at the end of it, and the thief was lifting coins from his mark, behind the barrels   
  
Marcus signalled his men. Out came their cutlasses, and one also held a pistol.   
  
"Hey there, lad," he said in a kind, conversational voice. "You'll not be denying us some fun, too, would you?"  
  
Marcus had James and Scar flank him as they silently moved beyond the barrels that were hiding the young man and his drunk companion. As one they raised their weapons, Scar staying back a little, and Marcus said pleasantly, "Those valuables you just so elegantly lifted--toss them to my friend, gently. The one with the wrap on his head. And be slow in your movements. This pistol has a hairtrigger."   
  
Spot had palmed some coins of course and was just about to slip the small sack of coins back into the man's incredibly large pocket when he heard the voice behind him. Darn! Never had anyone ever even got the idea to rob him. Well, sorry guys, there isn't much to rob here.   
  
He froze and slowly turned his head. There wasn't much light in the alley, which was the main reason why he had chosen it, but he could make out three men and the face of the nearest of them.   
  
Pirates. Three men, three cutlasses, and a pistol aimed at him, at a range that would make it hard to miss even given the inaccuracy of these weapons.   
  
They might not be able to see it in the darknes, but Spot smiled. They could have the bag of coins if they wanted to, no problem there. What the problem was that he wouldn't take any orders from any pirate ever again. Period. He just wouldn't.  
  
"It might be interesting to know how I'm supposed to throw a bag of coins in a slow movement," he said, lifting the bag, slowly while palming the coins in the other hand. He turned and waited.   
  
Marcus smiled, and then stopped smiling. Their target wasn't acting quite right for someone about to be kidnapped. He felt they should proceed with caution. He said, "You're not daft, even if you're acting like it. Just drop the bag on the ground, along with those nice coins you're holding, and let us get on with the business at hand. We're three, you're one. We are recruiting you to be a pirate on my ship. Don't give us trouble. James, get the rope ready."   
  
Somehow Spot managed to stay calm, which was a miracle; for the moment he didn't do anything rash. It would change in a second, but first he had to turn just a little further. "I am NOT a pirate!" he said, the anger rising in his voice and the calmness slipping away like water.   
  
What had that man said? Rope. These men didn't plan to rob him. They wanted to take him on a pirate ship! No! Oh no, not with him! But he forced himself to calm down a bit again, just enough to sound agreeable when he added: "Very well, here you are!"   
  
With that he threw the bag of coins at one man - by chance the one that the apparent leader of the group had indicated earlier -, the loose coins at the second while he dove forward and down to get below the line of fire from that pistol. His shoulder hit 'leader's' leg before he landed and rolled sideways, reaching for his knife, which was easily accessible. Three against one, maybe, but that didn't mean he had to surrender. No, he wouldn't do that again, either.   
  
"Ow, hey!" and then "OW!" said Marcus and then let his instincts take over. He got out of the way of his men, and let them do their job. This was not the first recruit who had put up a fight.   
  
Scar was farthest away from the diving man, but he moved in anyway and cocked his pistol at him, just as James landed his bulk on top of the young man and gripped his knife hand in both his. The rope was now lying on the ground, and James looked like he was trying to control a wriggling fish.   
  
"Help him!" ordered Marcus, and Scar took up the rope and got a loop of it around one ankle of their would-be pirate.   
  
Marcus cocked his own pistol and said, calmly, considering his shin was smarting like a horse had kicked it, "Don't make us get rough with you, young sir!" To Scar, he ordered, "Get his ankles tied! He can't run if he can't run!"  
  
If Spot heard the man's words he didn't give any indication that he did. The knife was wrestled out of his hand in a second, but that didn't make him any less fierce in his defense. He pulled up his knee, placed the foot firmly on the ground and used it as the lever to roll himself over, taking with him the man on top of him. He made it only about ninety degrees but that was enough to make it possible for him to swing a punch that landed not full on the man's chin but well enough to give him the second he needed to turn his attention to the man who was now fiddling with the rope.  
  
That sent a surge of panic through Spot and he kicked out with all his might, catching the man somewhere in the side. The rope! He had to get rid of that one... His attention turned to the first one again, using both fists to fight him off while his eyes searched the man's belt. He had to have a knife somewhere. If Spot could reach it....   
  
Marcus watched what was supposed to be a routine kidnapping turn into a melee. He kicked the boy's knife out of the way and knelt down on one knee, pointing the pistol at the young one's head. "Stop it! You're making a ruckus! If you won't come with us, I'll have to shoot you!" It was all bluster, for that would make too much noise, and Marcus hated pistols anyway. But the boy didn't know that, and the anger in Marcus' voice was real.   
  
He ordered his men to get on with the kidnapping. "Damn it, get those feet tied! James, you [moron], get a grip on his arms! Squash him if you have to, I don't care, just don't let this welp disgrace you!"   
  
James finally managed to get the boys arms pinned behind him, and Scar managed to tie his ankles. Marcus figured they had him in hand now, so he lowered his pistol. "There now, it won't be so bad. We're not bad pirates, and we've a good ship, too!"   
  
The whelp didn't listen but did his best to indeed disgrace the pirates. His only aim was to get free. By now Spot was really panicking, although there was also a great deal of cold anger in him at the same time. He didn't want to know how good their ship was, he wanted to get out of here.   
  
So, the guy had lowered his pistol, Spot didn't really care. He was not going to let himself get caugh by pirates, not at any cost! Now he was starting to rant loudly at the three men with every swearword he knew - and had pick up quite a lot over the years. His position looked worse by the second, however. With his arms pinned behind his back he first had to get some space to maneuver back. Not easy with tied feet.   
  
He grinned. Two tied feet could kick quite well, and as the man was about to tie down another knot he gave him everything. And this time he hit the stomach! Good, that should get that guy out of the picture for a while! The next thing he did was pull up his knees for verve and made a backwards roll over whatever was behind his back, which included his arms (which was okay by him, he knew what was coming and had been through worse) and the second man's hands. The roll made him land halfway on his knees, halfway on his side, but in a much better position to wrestle his hands free....he just had to be quick and strong enough...   
  
"Scar! His feet, now!" roared Captain Marcus, his pistol once again following the whirlwind they were trying to tame. Scar had an iron stomach, so that kick would hurt but not knock the wind out of him. "James, get him on his stomach and flatten him, and control those arms! He's not an eel!" Once this was done, Marcus had already rushed forward to pin one arm beneath his knee, and he grabbed the back of the boy's head, tangling one hand in whatever he could grab of his hair and the other in his shirt, which ripped resoundingly. A nice clean tear, right down the middle, so he tore off a long enough strip and used it to gag the young man. "You talked to your Mother with that mouth! I learned some words, there, lad, and that's enough mouth from you."  
  
Soon enough they had his wrists bound behind him, and Marcus ordered them to be joined to his ankles. "He's too slippery." He hoped he had his prisoner now.   
  
Pain shot through his arm as the third man came forward to kneel on it, but Spot was used to pain and he clearly refused to let it stop him in any way. He was in a hot panic and red fury and didn't care, for the moment, what happened to him, as long as he didn't fall into the hands of these pirates! So his ankles and wrists were bound, depriving him of the use of his hands and most of his legs. But he still had his weight and agility. Since he was gagged he shut up, no way to waste any breath like this!   
  
The important thing was to get off his stomach! With a big effort he pulled his knees up on one side of his body which left him in a very uncomfortable, twisted position, especially with one of the men still holding down his upper body, but that didn't last long. Spot's feet caught the side of a barrel which he used to push with his legs and throw himself sideways with everything he had. Somehow he had to break that hold! And where the hell was his knife?   
  
The barrel toppled over right into Capt. Marcus, who swore as it rolled over his foot. "What does it take?" he almost shouted, only holding back because they were making enough noise as it was. It might be late, and the alley secluded, but someone was bound to hear if they didn't finish this kidnapping and get the hell out of there. "[Incompetent fools]!" he swore at his men. "Just get him!"   
  
Scar managed again to grab his legs, and this time he wasted no time binding the knees, while James picked up the lad and slammed him chest down onto the cobbles. He dug his knee into his back and yanked on the rope Scar handed him to secure his elbows before getting those ankles tied to his wrists.   
  
Marcus knelt by the lad when he was caught, and whispered, "Had enough?"   
  
Crystal clear green eyes glared at the man. Spot was almost out of breath from the hard slam onto the stones, but not out of spirit, not by a long shot. He ignored the pain that was by now creeping all over his back and joints. Nothing new there. That wouldn't hold him back. For a moment he seemed to relax, just enough to convince number one and two that he indeed had had enough and get off him. If number three knew how to read the looks in his eyes, he'd know that it wasn't the case, but by then he made his next move.   
  
He pulled himself up to his knees, which demanded a good amount of agility and control, tied up as he was, but he managed. His mind was racing. There had to be *something* that he could do...   
  
He lowered his head and aimed at number the leader's stomach, putting as much of his strength and weigh behind the movement as he could. If only he could topple the man over he might have a chance to get himself on top of him....  
  
"Now there, you idiots--grab him--OOOOOFF!!" That blow was not expected, and it took Capt. Marcus right over and knocked the wind out of him in one move. He went over backwards and rolled instinctively, partially gaining his knees as his lungs fought to gain air. This lad was a handful and then some. He coudln't give any orders if he wasn't breathing, and his men were fighting to get a grip they could hold on the lad. Marcus would have sworn, but he barely had the breath to even imagine it. He glared back at those green eyes.   
  
When he had the breath back in him, he snapped, "Get a blindfold on him. And get a good grip too! That hurt!" He eyed the captive lad and waited for the blindfold to be produced. "Hurry up before he tries another trick!" He raised his pistol again.   
  
In his head, Spot swore. It hadn't turned out the way he had hoped, but still, it had been quite satisfying. Now he was squirming against the grip of two pairs of hands, in lack of any other plans. He was rapidly running out of options. Then he saw another chance just as number two  
  
produced a blindfold and started to reach for him with it. Number one made the mistake not taking care to stay away from him and Spot strained every muscle in his body to straighten as much as the ties allowed and slammed the side of his head into the mans's face. That movement took away any sense of balance that he still had and he collapsed to the ground, but at least he had gained another second. In the end that didn't help him much, though. Scar had had enough when James howled in pain and grabbed the side of his face, leaving him to somehow hang onto the human eel by himself. He did what he felt he needed to, and raised a ham of a fist and smashed it into the lad's cheekbone, hard enough to knock him out if he didn't had a head as hard as he suspected him now of having....Yup, he did. So he just plain sat on him and got the blindfold over his eyes and tied it tight, then hit him again, this time hearing the lad's head connect with the cobbles.   
  
Marcus groaned, for the lad was now lying as limp as an old rag. "Scar, you better not have killed him, for he put up a worthy fight!" He knelt by the lad and haphazardly felt for a pulse, and found one, and saw him breathing, albeit shallowly. There was a cut on his forehead, which was bleeding, but not severely. "Well, you didn't kill him. James, use your scarf to bandage that cut for now. I swear, Scar, if you've addled his wits, you're marooned next island we come to. Now, let's get him back to the ship. tbc 


	2. Discoveries

FULL CIRCLE  
  
Chapter 2 Discoveries  
  
Captain Marcus was glad to find the three crewmen and several baskets overbrimming with fresh bread already at the longboat when he, James, Scar, and their newest recruit arrived at its hidden location. As soon as the boy, still very unconscious, was made as comfortable as possible-which Marcus saw to, for the two who had taken the brunt of his struggles were inclined to toss him in and just let him lay as he landed-and the baskets of bread stored, they were off. All but Captain Marcus rowed, although James and Scar looked sore and moody, and the injuries they had taken in the kidnapping were showing up on their persons. Marcus had a feeling his own bruises were going to be with him awhile. However, the men rowed strongly, and soon the twin lanterns of the Black Arrow's poopdeck came into view even in the murkiness of an early summer night's fog, which hid most of the large ship from view. Marcus knew the fog would not last. He could feel the wind already rising, beginning to disperse the tendrils of mist.  
  
Things were ready for them when they reached the vessel, and as soon as everyone was aboard and the longboat secured to the deck, her sails were filling with sufficient wind that the moment the anchors were lifted, the ship began her journey away from the waters beyond the Bay of Sarentre, heading toward open sea.  
  
Marcus was busy for awhile. He'd told James and Scar to take the new recruit down to the orlop deck and tie him so he would not hurt himself or escape, and then get ready to do their duties on deck. The bread was stored where humidity would least reach it.  
  
"Any trouble from the young man brought aboard earlier?" Marcus asked a crewman passing by.  
  
"Not I've heard tell of, Cap'n. Seems a bit resigned, but not overmuch resentful."  
  
Marcus smiled. He ordered him fed, but kept below until first light. "Then let him loose and put him to work at what he likes best to do. I'll have him sign his X to the Code when I've time in the morning."  
  
"What about the other one, just brought on like a sack of potatoes?"  
  
Marcus considered. "Let him rest. He fought like a whale--gave James a shiner and swollen face. Have everyone leave him alone until daylight, then see if he's hungry."  
  
Marcus was busy well into the night, laboriously keeping his log up to date, puzzling through the math of what he had bought and paid for it. He added the bag of coins taken from their new recruit's mark to the wealth to be divided by the crew when it came time for that. And he eyed with great respect and admiration that lovely Spanish sword now sitting in the corner cabinet in his cabin.  
  
The candle lantern had burned low, and the ship was making good time out to sea before Marcus took his walk around the deck and stood for a time behind the bowsprit, watching the way ahead. The wind had vanquished the fog, and the stars shone brightly. Orion was bright still, but near the horizon, setting. Spring was past. The summer stars were taking Orion's prominent place.  
  
Captain Marcus could not help but relax and feel a surge of joy run through him as he breathed the salt air and listened to the creak of wood, automatically listening for anything out of place, any sign of weakening boards or bad rigging. The sails sounded as they should. All was well. He smiled to himself, whispered "Good night" to his ship, and gave her nearest rail a fond pat before he returned to his cabin and went to bed.  
  
Morning came too soon, and with it a patch of rough seas. Not unexpected, for there were currents here that had a lot of play with the waves. Marcus rolled out of bed, pulled on a pair of older shoes, and after washing his face and running a tortoisshell comb through his hair and fixing the brown grossgrain ribbon that kept his hair in a tail at the back of his neck, he donned his frock coat and left his cabin.  
  
*****  
  
Spot woke up with a headache worse than he had thought possible, but that wasn't his main problem. During the first few seconds, while still badly disoriented, he had been convinced that something heavy was pressing on his chest, and he tried to push it away, which led to the realization that- though standing-he couldn't move at all. The fact that he also could see nothing at all around him when he opened his eyes didn't help either. It was almost pitch dark. Almost. That meant-and movements of his head proved it-that the blindfold was gone. Still, it took him quite awhile to get over the first panic, calm down and start thinking clearly enough to fully analyze his situation.  
  
He was standing in a not exactly comfortable position with his arms pulled back and hands tied behind a wooden pillar. In addition to that there had to be at least a mile's worth of rope wound all around him, preventing him from making any movement whatsoever. That had been the weight against his chest, he realized, and there was no way to get rid of it.  
  
He swore. It was only in his head, because, while the blindfold was gone, they had left the gag in place.  
  
They!!! Pirates. They had come to Sarentre and despite his best efforts to prevent it, they had taken him captive. He was ON THEIR SHIP! He could feel the vessel sway on the waves, regular, gentle movements. They were under sail.  
  
Knowing that he was about to give in to his panic Spot tried to calm himself. At least they had been considerate enough to put a bandage on his head. It didn't help against the pain, though. Well, that was okay, he'd been through worse.  
  
Worse...  
  
Fear ran through him the likes of which he had not known for a long time, but at the same moment rage took over. Hot, burning rage. He fought against the ropes, knowing it was futile, until he was utterly exhausted and gasping for air.  
  
Calm down calm down calm down! He couldn't. Over and over again he swore that whenever he could get his hands on one of these pirates the guy would be really sorry. But it didn't look like that was going to happen anytime soon. No one seemed very interested in him. He was left utterly alone.  
  
Above he could hear the steps of those going after whatever their chores were while he himself could just as much as breathe - barely - tied up against the pillar as he was. The gag didn't help either.  
  
Spot cursed silently some more.  
  
******  
  
Marcus strolled slowly, his gait steady on the gently swaying deck. His crew was busy, and he didn't notice any unusual looks or signs of trouble coming.  
  
The Black Arrow was a fine ship, longer and sleeker than the average merchant vessel. The first time Marcus had seen those sails he has fallen in love with her. She had the perfect rigging, beautifully arranged on four masts - enough sail to catch the wind and drive her forwards through the sea. Close to the wind there was a small problem with drift, but nothing they couldn't handle.  
  
With her eight and sixteen cannons on each side of the main and between deck, plus three smaller, movable cannons she was well, but not exceedingly armed. And the weight wasn't too great so she stayed very maneuverable.  
  
All in all she was the one ship that Marcus ever dreamed of. When he had been captain of the White Star, and had answered the call that there was a merchant vessel almost adrift, and he had seen her through the spyglass, his immediate response was, "Pursue and prepare to board!" Clearly the ship was in some kind of trouble.  
  
She was. The Black Arrow had suffered an outbreak of desease and lost half her crew, and the other half was weak and could hardly handle the ship. So Marcus took her over, and since their captain had succumbed to the fever, he became the Captain of his dream ship.  
  
Oddly, it was the only choice he had, for the crew had feared pirates and gotten off a lucky single broadside, which took down the White Star most unexpectedly. But they got everything they needed aboard the Black Arrow before she went beneath the waves.  
  
The only problem with the merchant vessel was that she was low on crew. Those men who were willing enough to join with Marcus did so, and the others were left on an island frequently visited by merchants, and their supplies would last them two months if they were reasonably frugal and didn't waste anything. Likely, rescue would take less than half that time.  
  
But that still left Marcus short handed, for this was a bigger vessel. And then the fever struck again, and took half his original crew, so finding men became a need. It was a problem he was slowly starting to fix, but it would take time. Men were easy to find. Dependable men for pirate vessels were hard to find. Marcus thought again about his newest two..  
  
He could not help but notice that James and Scar were a bit bruised--he smiled to himself; they both looked like they had lost a brawl. He was well acquainted with his own bruises from the night before.  
  
This kept his mind on his new recruits. He saw the first of them--he'd get his name later--working on rigging. Good, that was a promising start. He would ordinarily have approached him right off, but he found himself wondering about the fighter.  
  
Marcus went over to James, who was working his usual chores. "What about the eel? How is he today? Any less fierce?"  
  
James shrugged. "Don't know, Cap'n. Haven't checked. Been busy."  
  
An odd feeling formed in his gut. Such little interest was unusual, and he remembered his orders to check the boy in the morning. "Has anybody checked on him?"  
  
James grunted, which meant he didn't know. Marcus frowned. That meant no one had. He turned and headed for the hatch over the fore hold.  
  
"Aft hold, orlop," called James, after the briefest hesitation.  
  
Marcus instantly changed direction and hurried. It was a beautiful day above, but he could swear he felt a bit seasick. He went down two decks and followed the narrow aisles between goods and cargo until he reached the cramped space where new prisoners were kept. He had grabbed and lit a lantern, and when he reached the little space, he hung it from a peg.  
  
What he saw caused him to swear and stop in his tracks. "Good God!"  
  
*****  
  
Slowly the headache was getting better - not much, but Spot had learned to savor even the tiniest positive aspects that he could find. That didn't mean that he was getting used to this situation. Alright, his heart had stopped beating like a drum, but only because it just couldn't keep up the high speed forever.  
  
Spot's temper could! His fury hadn't subsided in the least during the hours he had been here. It had to be hours. He'd become quite good at judging the time in situations like this, and he HATED it! Fury was the right word for what he felt and nothing else.  
  
Finally he heard steps coming closer. He wasn't sure whether he liked it or not. Indeed his heart started pounding harder again, but finally he would have someone to unleash his fury at-even if it were only with his eyes.  
  
A shape with a lantern was coming nearer. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark during those long hours, so he blinked and couldn't see much at first. That didn't keep him from glaring daggers at whomever was approaching. Two questions were written on his face: 'How dare you?' and 'What now?'  
  
In all his years at sea, Captain Marcus did not believe he had ever seen anyone so trussed before, and marvelled even as he gasped that the young man could still breathe! He saw that lethal look in those green eyes, and something inside him reeled. Of course the lad was angry, but this kind of fury...something slammed into him internally, and he wondered why he felt he should recognize the feeling. Of course, had it been him, he would have felt.....exactly the same way.  
  
Dear God, he thought. There had been times when he had felt exactly the same way. Marcus stepped forward briskly, going to work on some of the ropes holding the young man immobile against the post. "Can you even breathe? It's a wonder if you can," he said, and worked rope after rope free until he was held firmly, but not so absurdly. Marcus hadn't forgotten the way he had struggled before, and didn't want him to hurt himself getting overly enthusiastic fighting his bonds, but enough was enough.  
  
As soon as he had removed the unnecessary ropes, he began to run his hands along his limbs and body, trying to work back some of the circulation. "This should help you feel better, a little. You'll likely get pins and needles later; I'm sorry about that-"  
  
'Can you breathe?' What kind of a question was that? Of couse he could, somehow; he would have suffocated long ago if he couldn't, even though the ties did their best to prevent him from doing it. Spot recognized the man from the alley and found an urge to kick him in some seriously vulnerable parts. The guy was lucky he was tied up!  
  
Then the man started to loosen the ropes. Although Spot was a little surprised about that it didn't do much to dampen his fury. In his book, the man had to be planning something, and with pirates Spot had some experience of what that might be. The gag prevented him from giving any comments, though, and he was not the least bit surprised when soon he realized that loosening the ropes didn't mean freeing him. It so seldom did.  
  
Still, it puzzled him a bit. Why would he bother to keep him held firmly, but not find some other equally unpleasant way to re-tie him? But before he could even think about it he felt hands running along his limbs. Sure, his body was stiff and with little feeling from hours of immobility, but he could very well feel those hands!  
  
He stiffened, as far as that was possible, and his breath caught in his throat for a moment. "DO NOT TOUCH ME!" he shouted, or would have without the gag. As it was the shout came out as a forceful but muffled sequence of barely intelligible sounds.  
  
One did not become captain without instincts, instincts about many things. Oddly enough, one acquired an ability after a life spent at sea to understand many of the words of a gagged man.  
  
Still, these had not been the words Marcus had expected, nor their vehemence, and again something twisted inside him so that he immediately ceased his efforts to help the captive and instead did the opposite of what his ordinary instincts would have been. He stepped back and into his sight, putting sufficient distance between them that the young man might calm down a little.  
  
His fury was like a living thing, no ghost. Living. And puzzling. Marcus took a few moments to work out what his instincts were telling him. Something about him...last night. Something he had seen last night..  
  
In a burst of intuition it came to him, and he knew what it was: that unscarred back, that the torn shirt had revealed to him for a moment. Marcus knew what the contradictions were: handsome young man, unscarred. Physically. But, it seemed, not emotionally.  
  
He swallowed. This one had been with pirates before. And they had hurt him. On the inside. This one carried his scars on the inside.  
  
Marcus felt like he was on a pitching deck. These were rough, dangerous seas, but he knew what he had to do, and he knew it would be hard to do it: gain the young man's trust. He knew it would take time. But his own past dictated the course through the difficult waters.  
  
He swallowed again, and asked, "If I take off the gag, will you behave?" He spoke as unthreateningly as possible, knowing now that he was dealing with the most primal of the instincts: survival, and desire to flee to safety. The lad was under the command of his emotions, not his reason. If he could somehow reach that-  
  
Spot glared. His heart was ready to jump right out of his throat and his hands balled into fists as far as the ties allowed. He took his time, unable to react any faster. He didn't like this man, and he wouldn't be fooled by any kind words! But that gag had become a real nuisance. It hurt after the long hours spent here. A break would do good. Spot nodded. It would take some self control, but he didn't have much of a choice.  
  
Marcus went behind the captive who he very much now wanted to release, but realized with a sinking feeling how unsafe it would be to do so, and how the lad would be unable to understand why not. He would think the worst, and there was little Marcus could do to affect that. Still, he would do all he could. So he only worked loose the knots of the gag, and without touching the young man, removed it. He stepped back, beyond touching range. "Your name?" Normally he would have followed that question with, "Your usual shipboard duties?", but this time he ommitted that question, for he knew already the answer.  
  
The moment the gag was released Spot drew a deep breath, which resulted in a short string of coughs as his lungs got used to free breathing again. He didn't stop glaring, though. In fact, he felt like spitting at the man, but he had promised to behave and besides, he didn't have enough spit left to waste. Man, he was thirsty! Unfortunately he had learned that more often than not asking for water was the best way NOT to get it. So he settled for simply answering the question. He opened his mouth and nearly said 'Spot' before he stopped himself again. That name was part of a past he would rather like to forget. He had been called that since he could remember, but that wasn't his real name.  
  
"Martin." He finally answered. To hell if he told anybody his nickname ever again.  
  
Marcus nodded. "Martin. I'm Captain Marcus. This ship is the Black Arrow. She was a merchant ship until she sank my ship and I had to take her over. She is now a pirate ship, but we do not follow the usual policies of wanton mayhem and cruelty. You will learn that. This crew is hand-picked, and no one is going to hurt you." He watched those green eyes for reaction.  
  
Spot did not even try to hold back a sneer. The guy didn't really think he would believe him, did he? No cruelty indeed! Ha! He could very well remember the words of a different captain ...'We don't want him to get hurt, do we?'... and that captain hadn't even kidnapped him first and left him to wait for hours tied up like something to eat! This time Spot didn't answer.  
  
Marcus could have smacked himself on the forehead, but he didn't. When he reviewed what he had said, he realized that an unscarred cabin boy would have heard all of this before, and would be even more distrustful of hearing this now. Well, there was nothing for it but to try to do something to show he meant Martin no harm. He said, "Will you be quiet if I go and get you some water, and food? And another shirt? Yours is in shreds. I cannot untie you yet. I know you would attack. Will you be silent until I return? I will not be gone long."  
  
Another nod, not a friendly one and certainly not an enthusiastic one, but a nod. He could be quiet, no problem, for if he refused then the gag would just be used again anyway. And water sounded good, really good. Yes, he had learned when it was better to be quiet.  
  
Captain Marcus watched that face, and saw hints of expressions he was not sure Martin was aware of. How well he knew that look! That same part in his gut twisted again, and even as he reached for the lantern, he stopped. He looked at Martin, and let his hand drop, empty, to his side. He knew his ship and could go topside without light. "I will leave the lantern with you." With that, he quickly made his way back to his cabin, and pulled out the first shirt he came to. It was navy blue cotton, and Marcus had another one almost identical to it. It would be too big for the lad, but not by much. He left his cabin, looked quickly around with his sharp eyes and saw that all was running smoothly. The sky was not threatening storm, the seas were not too choppy, and the wind was from a favorable direction. He hurried onward, and took up the topmost loaf of bread in the first basket he came to, filled a large tin cup of water, and grabbed an apple from the barrel that he passed as he went below. He also managed to snag another lantern, and somehow kept everything from dropping into a pile on the deck.  
  
Once he had reached Martin again, he put the food and tin cup atop a barrel, pegged the lantern, and took back up the cup of water. "I am going to hold this to your lips. Drink slowly."  
  
He was leaving him the latern? This was the first real surprise for Spot. Never had anyone ever bothered to leave him a light. What did this darn pirate plan?  
  
Well, he would find out soon enough, but somehow he wasn't ready to just wait until the solution was presented to him. The moment the Captain was out of sight Spot started to feverishly work on his ties. Sure, he'd spent fruitless time on this task already, but now the ropes had been loosened and maybe he would find a weakness...  
  
He didn't.  
  
Soon enough, steps could be heard again and the Captain returned. Spot never took his eyes off him to even blink. He was scared, he was angry, and now he also needed to figure out this pirate, especially find out about his intentions and weaknesses. The water was a relief, though.  
  
He even smiled when the cup was put to his lips. 'Drink slowly.' Of course, no problem. He knew the drill. He had found out early that great thirst and hasty gulps didn't mix well. So he drank carefully, as much as he could, but no more than his body could take at once. When the cup was empty he hesitated for several seconds. Should he say it or should he not? What would be seen as less provocative? He decided to try good manners. "Thank you."  
  
Marcus patiently held the cup until Martin had finished it. He was surprised by the courtesy. "You are welcome, Martin."  
  
He felt it unwise to say more, so he turned to the food. And his eyes lit on that loaf.  
  
He could have sworn. It was from the bakery where he had first seen Martin. That boy would recognize it, by sight, and by taste, and he would fear for his friends back in Sarentre. So Marcus stalled for time, trying to think of a way to keep the young man from feeling panicked again when he saw the bread. He mumbled, "Getting more water," before dashing off to do just that. He returned quickly. The loaf wasn't going to vanish into thin air, and the young man needed food. There was nothing to do but see what happened. He picked it up and tore off a piece. In as casual a voice as he could manage, and avoiding looking in Martin's eyes, he said, "You must be hungry, too." And he held the piece of bread to Martin's mouth.  
  
Puzzlement was the only word for what Spot felt when the Captain - what was his name? Marcus - suddenly dashed away. Could it be that Marcus was a bit out of his mind? If so, then Spot was in real trouble! His heart started beating yet a little bit faster.  
  
He looked around, carefully, trying to find any more hints, anything that might help him understand his situation. There wasn't much. The lanterns were just ordinary lanterns like those he had seen aboard the...no, he wouldn't think of that! The shirt that was lying on the barrel as far as he could see was just as unremarkable, and the bread...."Holy shit!"  
  
It was only a whisper, but just as strong a curse as any shout could be. Christopher's handiwork was hard to mistake. He always managed to get the loaves into the weirdest forms. Spot had seen a lot of them over the months. This bread was made by Christopher.  
  
What good the water had done to Spot's throat vanished again and his mouth became dry. Christopher didn't sell to pirates. Never. Not willingly. He hated pirates almost as much as Spot did.  
  
He had been angry all along, but now it reached new heights as fear about what would happen to him was pushed into the back of his mind to be replaced by pure rage of what might have happened already to his friends. When Marcus returned and commented on him being hungry, he said, "I am," in a voice that trembled and held the promise of certain death, were he free. He didn't take a single bite.  
  
Marcus watched every expression, resigned to enduring the lad's distrust. He took the bread away, and then was struck by something. Yes, he knew Martin's expression--he was afraid. Not for himself, but for his teacher. The bakers. But what if they were not just friends? Uncle and Aunt, perhaps? Had he stolen the boy from his family? Dear God. He would have to procede slowly and with even greater care.  
  
"Yes, I know you recognize the bread. I followed you earlier yesterday, and watched the fencing lesson in the back. And I bought some bread, and since the ship was low, I had the bakers make more. I sent my most trusted men, dressed like gentlemen with manners to match, and paid the bakers well for their efforts. We did not hurt anyone. All I did to earn the title of pirate was to steal that Spanish sword you were using. I took it. It is in my cabin." For some reason, Marcus added softly, "It is still yours."  
  
Spot nearly hissed. He was confused, he was afraid, he was angry. And he didn't believe a word. Why would a pirate bother to dress up to fool a baker, especially a pirate who went about taking people against their will? Oh, come on! Walking in with swords and pistols was so much easier, besides... "No one just walks into Christopher's shop and steals a sword." he hissed. "He isn't as simple as you think."  
  
"And this isn't as complex as you believe it to be, Martin," Marcus stated as quietly as he could keep his voice, although he knew what the man was thinking, and felt offense rise in him. Yet he had the presence of mind to realize the lad had not said 'Uncle Christopher.' Good. They were not relatives. "I told you, we did not hurt your friends. I know you think my word is as worthless as spit, but I gave it to you, and I am Captain of this ship. If my word is worthless, you have no one on board to trust at all."  
  
He gentled his voice. "Give in, lad. Your friends are not hurt beyond losing your company, which I am sure will be painful, but I cannot help that. I needed crew. You looked able. Now, are you going to eat, or do I leave you here for awhile longer? Believe me, lad, it is not my wish to leave you down here any longer than you make it necessary."  
  
Spot didn't take his eyes off the man. He listened and didn't believe him any more than before. Pirates lied, especially to boys. There was one thing he agreed with, though. He had no one on board to trust at all. Well, that wasn't anything new either, right?  
  
He swallowed, hard. Giving in was not an option, he just couldn't do that! Wasn't there something he could do? Dammit!  
  
"Then don't keep me down here. I .. don't .. want .. to .. be .. here. I don't care about your ship, your plans or you. I am not one of your crew and I will never be."  
  
He was talking himself into a fury, into a more outspoken fury than before, and he knew it. He didn't care. The blow would come soon and cut him off. It didn't matter. Anything was better than ... "I won't give in!" he nearly shouted.  
  
Marcus waited, his insides knotting, as Martin raged, anger fueled by fear and past experiences. How well Marcus remembered his own youth. The beatings...yelling anyway, because he would be beaten no matter what. He felt as if he were looking back at his own past.  
  
He waited, stomach churning, until Martin's fury blew itself out, and then he waited a little longer. And then Marcus said, very quietly, "I know, lad. I know."  
  
And then his voice grew stronger, but without threat. "You want to know why I will not harm you? And why I will not let anyone else harm you? It is very simple." Methodically, he took off his frock coat, and finally, almost shaking, took off his shirt. He turned fully around, letting Martin see everything. Scars showed everywere. His voice shook when he faced the lad again. "That is why. I was not always a captain. I was for a long time the plaything of the captain. And then the crew. No one, ever, on my ship, faces this fate."  
  
Now Marcus had to be silent for awhile to calm himself. He pulled his shirt over his shoulders and the coat over that. He dropped his eyes from Martin as he buttoned every button and tied every lace, until he was covered again from wrists to neck, his scars again hidden.  
  
"Now, will you eat?"  
  
Spot's mouth opened, but not because he wanted to say anything. The blood had drained from his face and the rage that had been hot a moment before left him almost shivering now. Shock and confusion mixed with all the other emotions that he felt. Trust wasn't one of them. He didn't know what to believe. He had seen scars like that before, and the fact that that person had been hurt had never meant the he wouldn't hurt Spot. On the other hand there was something in that voice...  
  
He didn't realize he was shaking his head. Suddenly he didn't feel like eating at all. "Please leave me alone." He was even too confused to realize that he had used the word 'please', the word that he had learned long ago not to use on a pirate ship.  
  
Marcus sighed heavily. He had no choice in what he had to do next, and he wished it could be avoided. He turned and left Martin, and when he returned, he held chains and shackles in his hands. "Don't fight me," he said dully. Despite Martin's bonds, he tore the ragged shirt from him, and carefully untied him a little at a time-never allowing him full freedom- until he got the navy blue shirt on him, being careful to touch him as little as possible as he did the laces at the neck. Then he ripped strips from the wrecked shirt and wrapped Martin's writsts before locking the manacles around them. He did the same for his ankles, so the fetters wouldn't abrade his skin, and left him enough chain to take a short but reasonable step.  
  
"I will not leave you down here, and I cannot let you loose, so I am putting you in irons until you are no danger to me, yourself, or anyone else. If you do not come with me, I will have you brought anyway. You will stay locked in my cabin until it is safe to let you out. But you are not my 'boy'--you understand that? I have to put you somewhere. Do you fight and still end up in my cabin, or do you come with me with such dignity as there is left in this situation? It is up to you."  
  
Spot had his eyes closed. Why could the man not just leave him alone? By now he was breathing heavily, shying away from every touch, but unable to do anything about it. Chains! Of course, he should have expected that, which did not mean that he had to like it. Oh please, why couldn't he just wake up and find himself safe in Sarentre again?  
  
Marcus had nearly finished his last sentence when Spot finally opened his eyes again and looked at him.  
  
The man was right, fighting would not gain him anything. But could he just follow him to the cabin, the CAPTAIN's cabin?  
  
"I cannot." he said, almost inaudible. God, he had never thought he would ever feel this helpless again! He swallowed once more and summond a little more of his voice. There was something he needed to know, no matter what asking the questiong might cost him. "I will come if...." Another gulp, and yet a little more of his voice. "Do ...you swear by your soul, this ship and everything that is on her that neither Christopher nor Charlene are hurt?"  
  
Marcus did not expect that question. Not that one. But he nodded. "I swear. I had my men pay them generously for the batch they made for us. I swear we did not hurt them, nor send others later to do it. They are, as far as I know, unhurt. But I think they will miss you."  
  
Spot nodded. He still was not sure if it meant anything, but he was ready to accept these words for now. There would be time to puzzle this out later. "All right then."  
  
When this time he swallowed, he braced himself for what was to come. "But that is all. I am not going to be ... I am NOT going to give in!"  
  
Ordinarily Marcus would have put his hand on the young man's shoulder and thanked him. He had been prepared to do what he had to to get him to the cabin, and was relieved not to have to resort to force that would only frighten Martin even more. Instead, he merely nodded. "Follow me, lad." He took up bread, apple, and lanterns, and led the way, giving Martin the trust that he would be true to his word and follow.  
  
(to be continued, even faster with reviews.) 


	3. Approaching Storm

When Captain Marcus turned to lead the way to his cabin, there was a moment of hesitation in Spot that lasted for several rapid heartbeats. He did not want to follow, did not want to go the Captain's cabin - at the thought Spot's throat constricted somewhat and his breathing became even more irregular. Yet, he did not want to stay in the hold either. Actually, Spot realized with a sinking feeling, what he wanted did not matter at all. He had promised to go. He had given his word. Why? Because it gave him a small feeling of having made a choice, when the truth of the matter was that he had no real choice at all. There were more than enough men on the ship to make him do whatever they wanted him to..  
  
Slowly he started moving, following after the Captain. The chains did not hinder him much; after awhile one learned to move wearing them. He had become quite good at it.  
  
Once outside the hold he stopped for a minute while squinting into the sunlight. He had been in darkness long enough that his eyes needed to adjust to the brightness. There were men going about, working on the usual chores aboard a ship. Some were looking in his direction, most were ignoring him, but the looks of those few who were looking made him fell very concious of his situation.  
  
He was on a pirate ship. He was a prisoner. He was in CHAINS! And he was young.  
  
No. Calm down. Calm down. Remember the laughter in your face, the grins when you cried. Don't show your fear! Don't let them see your weaknesses!  
  
He moved again, his steps as sure as he could manage. He avoided looking left or right. The cabin was not very far now and he reached the door in no time...and stopped dead right outside.  
  
For two long seconds he just stared inside, his already rapid breath turning into a clearly audible pant while the glint in his eyes spoke of the rising anger.  
  
The cabin, a typical cabin, but with ... the two, spaced wooden pillars, the metal bar joining them at ankle height - he had seen such before, knew how they were used...  
  
"No!"  
  
*****  
  
Captain Marcus had very quietly signalled James and Scar to leave their duties and follow, for he had a feeling his cabin would scare Martin even more than it would just because it was the Captain's cabin. He remembered that it had the pillars, with the footbar down below, for the previous captain had liked to abuse his boys. For that reason, Marcus had at first hated the room, but since there was no way to remove the pillars or bar without structurally damaging the cabin, he had left them in and ran a line between the pillars, to hang his laundry to dry. Over time he had learned to ignore everything but the laundry line. He did not even see the structure anymore.  
  
But there was no laundry hanging just now and just in time he remembered the pillars. He knew what would happen when the door opened and Martin saw...  
  
He sighed. Sure enough, Martin began to tremble and it was only a moment before the explosion happened. "James! Scar! Hold him, but don't hurt him!" he called at the same time as the young man made his first frantic move.  
  
He turned to Martin and said as calmly but as hurriedly as he could, "It is not what you are thinking, lad. I do not use them--my word was good below, and I give it again! You will not be ill-treated!"  
  
It was no use. Spot did not even hear the Captain's words over the rush of blood in his ears. But even if he had heard them, he would not have believed them one bit. After two seconds of being rooted to the spot he flung himself around and made off - he did not know where, he did not care where, as long as it was away from that cabin.  
  
The moment he turned he saw the two men coming towards him again - number two and three from  
  
the previous evening, one of them with a nicely swollen face. They were cutting off his escape.  
  
Spot gave it no thought; he was far beyond the point where his brain did anything remotely rational. He just DID. Crying out, he used the chain that bound his wrists as a weapon to deliver a blow that might free the way. He tried to kick at the same time, but when he tried, the chain between his ankles was too short and he was nearly knocked off his feet. Still, every instinct told him not to let anyone come near enough to touch him, and he had fists, fingers, teeth and two kicking feet to keep everyone at bay - and he would use them anyway he could. When the two men grabbed him, he went wild, shouting and fighting.  
  
Marcus grabbed one of his stockings from the previous day and ran forward, bellowing at his men to keep hold of Martin long enough for him to do what he felt he had to do. He hated seeing Martin so frightened--it spoke volumes about what he had endured in the past. But Marcus knew people. He could see that Martin was beyond reason, beyond seeing, hearing or thinking anything. He was in a panic, and the only thing to do with that was wait for it to burn out and keep the one panicking from hurting himself and everyone around.  
  
"Don't hit him!" Marcus yelled over the din, which was a more than necessary order, because James and Scar obviously had not forgotten about the previous night's fight. Somehow he managed to get the gag on the captive. At least he could neutralize those biting teeth. He was taking a beating, as were James and Scar, who looked ready to explode. But finally Marcus wrapped his strong arms around Martin from behind, squeezed so those arms didn't flail, and lifted him off his feet. "Grab his legs and get him into the cabin!" This was a spectacle the entire crew was now watching with undisguised attention.  
  
Marcus shouted at large, "Someone bring chains! Hurry!" He wanted to end this as soon as possible. As it was, there would be gossip all over the ship.  
  
But Spot did not give up so easily. They were stong, all of them, but he could not-he must not-no no no no no NO! He hit something with the shackle around his right wrist, which hurt, but he did not even feel it. Nor did he care who or what he had hit. He did not stop shouting and swearing when another gag was shoved into his mouth.  
  
Swinging his arm in an arc he managed to hit another nose - a fact that did not quite register - before he was grabbed and lifted off the ground. No! He kicked. He kicked backwards towards the shins of whoever was behind him, with both feet, then forwards, towards the stomachs of the two in front of him... A cornered horse could not have kicked harder.  
  
Marcus cursed at the beating his shins and nose took, but he kept his hold, tightened it, and soon Scar had a secure hold of Martin's legs. Moments after that, they were inside the cabin. "Where are those chains?" he yelled. As soon as Jardin came with them, he dodged another head butt, and wondered if anyone would ever be safe around this lad. At the moment it did not seem like it, but they were finally gaining the upper hand. Soon they held him so he was unable to kick or flail his arms. He was trussed again. Marcus grabbed Martin and shouted, "Calm down! You are hurting yourself!" Inside he knew he might as well have told Martin to jump off a cliff for all the good it did.  
  
Even if Spot had been listening, he would not have done what he was told. There was no way he was going to calm down. He did not care if he hurt himself as long as he fought those holding him. Hitting and kicking were now useless-which did not mean that he stopped trying. However, squirming was still possible. Every muscle in his body worked hard and he was twisting and turning to try and break the hold of these people.  
  
Spot was panting and sweating heavily, but his efforts did not subside one bit! He would bite despite the gag if he could reach someone with his teath! He tried everything his instincts saw as a possible way of defence - and his instincts were well honed.  
  
Marcus, watching pure panic in action, sighed as heavily a he ever had in his life. He told Scar to sit on those chained legs, and he himself sat across Martin's chest. "Lad, I'm truly sorry for this." With that he drew back and let fly a hard fist, which connected with Martin's jaw like a hammer on wood, and knocked Martin senseless.  
  
He wasted no time. "Get him on the far side of the bed from those pillars." The men lifted the unconscious man and flopped him not gently onto the bed, which swayed but for Marcus holding it steady. Soon, they had redone his chains so he was made fast to the frame of that side, and not going anywhere. Marcus left the gag in place before turning to his battered and bloodied crewmen, who were looking like they were eager to dump Martin right overboard. "Outside," he panted. "He is not going anywhere now. The worst he can do is sway the bed a bit. I have to address the crew."  
  
Captain Marcus followed James, Scar, and an astonished looking Jardin, who suddenly wasn't so sure anymore that James and Scar's story of the lad's kidnapping had been really that much exaggerated, onto the deck outside his cabin. He told them to all get cleaned up, but to listen to what he said while they did it. He noticed off to one side the other new recruit, whose name he did not yet have, looking worried and nervous while others looked more astonished. A few had the fine beginnings of suspicion written across their formerly trusting faces. He cursed silently to himself. What a mess.  
  
He had forbidden anyone on his ship from doing exactly what it looked like he had just done. So he rummaged around in his shaken mind, and grasped at what seemed to be a good explanation. He would have to tell it to Martin later. He hoped the boy would go along with it just to save himself the consequences, which would be berthing with the crew. They weren't bad men, but Marcus was sure that they would scare Spot even worse than he was already scared, were such a thing possible.  
  
Glancing at James and Scar, he realized he had a bloody face himself, and so he called over the assembled men, "I will have a word with all of you in a moment."  
  
He went back in, and made sure Martin was still unconscious. That impossible haircut... He looked so young, so alone, much different from the skilled young thief in Sarentre. Marcus wondered which one was the real Martin. Maybe they both are.  
  
He shook his head when he saw the bruise on Martin's jaw. He knew his teeth would hurt on that side--he knew from experience that being punched while gagged was hard on the teeth. So much for not hurting the boy.  
  
He hadn't wanted to.  
  
He found a cloth and soaked it in water from his basin and pitcher, and placed it against the darkening bruise. It would help a little. Then he got out his shaving mirror and took a look at himself. He swore. Bloody nose, bloody damn near everything. Bruises-he looked as if he had fallen down a very long stone staircase. He looked like James and Scar. He grabbed another cloth and cleaned himself up as much as he could, as quickly as he could, then went back out. He closed the door firmly behind him.  
  
"All crew of the Black Arrow!" he called over them all, and their soft murmurs silenced quickly. He saw a lot of thoughts plainly on a lot of faces. Surely the story of Eel, as James and Scar had nicknamed the boy, was already taking on a life of its own and planting some questions and doubts into some hearts.  
  
So he addressed the matter head on. "This is not what it looks like! The boy's name is Martin, and he is my...nephew! At least, I think he is. He looks like my brother's son." Jesus, forgive me for lying! "So he is not my 'boy'." Instinctively he especially emphasised that last sentence. The reasons for that might be lost on several of the crew, but actually those were to be considered lucky. "I think he is my nephew, and so I intend to look after him honorably. No one will harm him or even touch him from this day on. He will be left to me. I will honor my responsibility. -And that is all it is! Is that understood by everyone?"  
  
There was a chorus of "Aye, Cap'n," from below. Marcus studied the faces below, and saw suspicion remaining on some. He noticed that James and Scar were looking at each other wise raised eyebrows.  
  
So, the matter was not yet settled. Marcus exhaled quietly and long. "Are there any questions? Feel free to raise them. Let the air be cleared, doubts put to rest."  
  
Murmuring broke out again, and finally a midshipman named Conrad spoke up. "What happens t' the boy if he don't turn out t' be your kin? He hit Cap'n and crew, and that aint supposed to be allowed without punishment."  
  
Quite a few yelled "Yeah" and other confirmations of that question, and a rigger named Billy commented, "You all look fresh kilt! We did that, we would be marooned!"  
  
Marcus quieted the men by raising his hands. "Martin is deathly afraid of pirates. We did not learn that until it was a little late to."  
  
"How come he be so afraid o' pirates, Cap'n?" asked James, fingering his mouth and asking a lot of other questions with his eyes. But he did not say anything out loud of his doubts concerning the talk of the boy being the Captain's nephew. After all, the two had had a private conversation down in the hold..  
  
"You two were down in the hold awhile, alone," spoke Vincent, and Marcus saw James shoot him a glance and guessed the man had had a similar thought. "But if you gives yer word nothin' untoward happened, we believe you, Cap'n Marcus," finished Vincent. "Ye never did lie t' us before, an' I for one don't believe ye' would to protect a boy who's bloodied an' bashed ye to bits."  
  
Marcus held up his hands again, for the talk and murmurs had grown in volume after Vincent's speech. "Aye, I do give you my word that nothing 'untoward' happened before, during, or after Martin and I talked in the hold-"  
  
"Cap'n?" asked a loud voice. It was Parker, a junior gunner, who looked like he had trouble believing him. "Why come does yer buttons on yer vest not be done right nay more when they did afore ya went down to the.to speak with that boy you says is kin?"  
  
Marcus did not look down at his vest buttons, despite his instinct to do so. He instead looked Parker in the eyes, for the man's words had increased the tension on deck until it was palpable, like a heartbeat now drumming. The rest of the crew was now silent and uncomfortable, waiting to hear the answer, and worrying what it would be.  
  
Marcus spoke, his voice more stern and commanding than it had been. "You are asking me several questions, Parker. The first is, Can the Captain's word be trusted? The second is, What really happened in the hold? The third is, you do not believe I think the boy is my nephew." He raised his voice. "But behind them all is one single accusation. Parker, are you calling me a liar?" Marcus held the man's gaze head on, for to back down under such conditions would be to appear weak, and while he might feel it physically after battling Martin, now was not the time to show it. No matter the ship, no matter the chain of command, at the core of any successfully run vessel there had to be discipline. Marcus knew it was his responsibility to see that discipline did not break down because of these events.  
  
Parker realized all eyes were on him, and ears too. The only sounds to be heard were those made by a ship under sail in a friendly sea.  
  
Parker, a tall, almost gangly man who was good at his job and did not know the Captain was planning on promoting him to full gunner, held his ground, albeit nervously. "No Sir Captain Marcus. I, uh, was just wondering, Sir. About the other things." He raised his chin and said what Marcus knew many were or would be thinking when they reviewed this matter in their minds. "We never had this happen on this ship before. We all are pirates under the technicalities of English law, but we aint bad men, Sir. We aint true pirates, and I for one do not wish to be. If the code on this ship has changed, I want to know, Sir."  
  
Marcus nodded gravely, and smiled a little at the junior gunner. It was out in the open. No more delicate dancing around the subject. Now he had to catch this wind before it became a storm. "Thank you, Parker. Have no fear of saying what you truly worry about." He sat down on the top step of the ladder/stair leading up to his cabin. Everyone could still see and hear him easily. "Nothing will change on this ship." That was mainly what the crew wanted to hear, but Marcus knew it would not be enough to silence the rumors. "I am worn out from those fights. The lad is.unexpected. Let me put your fears as much to rest as I can. Last night, there was something about him which I recognized. Only today when I talked with him did I realize what it was. You know my past, what I was, and why I allow no cabin boys or lascivious behaviour on my ship. Martin--that is his name-- was a cabin boy at some time. I am sure of it. And he fears more than anything being such again. That is why we had that scene just now. He panicked when he saw my cabin."  
  
"But, Captain, he was in chains already," said Scar, and a few men nodded in approval. They were not so easily satisfied.  
  
"Aye, he was. I had to protect my crew and myself, and hopefully Martin in the bargain." Marcus said, looking at both Scar and James. "You both know what he is capable of. He is so afraid, he cannot yet think rationally. And now he fears those chains. There was no winning this time, and there will not be until he learns to trust a little. I hope that happens soon. I am doing what I can to reassure him." He touched his nose, and the tension was sufficiently broken that there was a round of wry laughter. "I had to show him my scars," admitted Marcus, glancing with a shrug toward Parker. "I guess I got my buttons off kilter after that."  
  
The laughter had died down. Marcus saw several of the newer crew, including the newest addition, look startled and very uncomfortable. So he added, his voice lower than before. "I was a captain's boy for a long time, and seldom as obedient as was demanded of me." That was enough of an explanation. It was certainly as much as he was willing to give right now. The old stories would circulate anew, and some would look at him differently for awhile. He was used to that.  
  
"But he still hit you good," Billy said, raising the point again that he had addressed earlier, and Marcus realized that despite the explanation at least some of the crew expected the rules to be followed. Here Marcus was in a fix. Exceptions led to more exceptions, and more exceptions to even more exceptions... which would quickly undermine the discipline and respect the crew had for him.  
  
Marcus raised his voice just a little. "Martin is not a member of the crew. At the moment, he is a civilian passenger, and not subject to the full laws aboard this vessel." He ran a hand through his hair. "The best I can think of right now is to give him a chance to calm down, and then see what happens."  
  
Billy pressed. "But if he was a pirate before, he knows the code. He's gettin' off Scott free, after fighting you and crew. I don't like that, Cap'n."  
  
Marcus studied Billy and said evenly, "He never signed the register of this ship. And right now he is in heavy chains and hardly able to move. And we gave him some bruises too..." Marcus winced at that, inwardly, while keeping his exterior demeanor more commanding. "I hardly see that as getting off 'Scott free'."  
  
"It still seems light fer what he did," muttered Billy, and Marcus gave him a long, assessing look. He had been of a mind to promote this man soon, to full gunner status, but now he hesitated. He studied the man, and realized that the ready smile he had never entirely been comfortable with was more of an effect than a fact. The man squinted his blue eyes so hard, his mouth turned up. But now the effect was more harsh than friendly. Even when he was not squinting, that turned-up mouth could easily fool one into seeing friendliness where perhaps it did not truly exist. Marcus would be sure and watch this crewman more closely. He was about to restate his position when James spoke up. "Billy, he aint signed the codes, and that means he aint done wrong yet. Not officially."  
  
"Exactly." Marcus said, but Billy was even faster. "And if he doesn't sign the code?"  
  
Marcus made his voice carry louder than it needed to, even as he frowned slightly at the junior gunner. "If Martin does not sign the codes, he will be put ashore somewhere, and we will move on. Does that please you sufficiently, Billy?"  
  
Billy still did not look too pleased, but by now most of the crew seemed to see Marcus point as several nods and murmurs indicated. And Billy was intelligent enough to realize that. He nodded. "It'll do, Captain."  
  
After a pause, James said, "We trust ye, Cap'n. No need t' say no more."  
  
Marcus gave James a grateful smile, for loyalty meant a lot to him. He was about to continue with the explanation when an impromptu chorus of "Aye!" began and built quickly. He stood and tried to quiet the chorus, but it would not lessen. A voice was heard, "Go tend yer nephew, Cap'n," and the chant picked that up.  
  
The Captain knew better than to go against the united wishes of his crew, so he looked around at everyone, judging facial expressions, and decided the crisis has passed-for the moment, anyway. He waved and thanked his crew, then turned to go back into the cabin.  
  
******  
  
Gus had not really been afraid when he'd been suddenly snatched from behind while mending nets in Sarentre. He knew such things happened, and were best taken gracefully. Whatever life put in his way, he took and made the best of it. If he found himself in a bad situation, he took the first opportunity to get out of it.  
  
He slid through life, making such friends and acquaintances as he could. He had been in Sarentre since his former ship made port there the previous October, and he had made sure he was not on it again when it sailed out to find a deeper, bigger harbor to wait out the winter.  
  
Now that had been a fairly nasty ship. And he learned soon enough that this port was friendly to pirates, so he kept out of the way when ships came in. Spring had been rough, with short crews looking for new men. He hadn't liked any of the ships he'd seen, so he'd kept out of the way. And the upper part of the town hadn't been so bad, but in order to find work and keep an eye on events - especially ships coming in - he had to stay near the port. He had been lucky enough to find a fisherman who needed an extra hand and his nets mended. Gus worked as a fisherman by day, and mended nets by lantern light until he had to sleep to ready for the next day.  
  
He had not expected to be kidnapped onto a ship. Once on board he had been taken below and left, still bound and gagged, but only till morning. Then a fellow named Jardin had come and led him to meet the First Mate, who seemed nice enough. Gus had no choice to put his X on the paper that, he figured, now officially made him a pirate.  
  
During the night, while he had waited patiently, sitting with his back to a post, another man had been carried by, all tied up and out cold. He had a bandage on his head, and the two men carrying him grumbled and looked like they'd been hit by anchor chains. Gus had smiled a bit. *Got 'em a fighter!* But he hadn't gotten much of a look beyond that first one.  
  
Until he'd seen the Cap'n leading him....what were those chains for? Gus had felt worried about that. Jardin had told him they didn't have cabin boys on this ship. He'd been glad, because he wasn't that old yet, and older sailors sometimes still gave him the eye.  
  
So he had listened closely to the crew's worries, and even closer to what Cap'n Marcus said in reply. As he listened, his intuition had been confirmed: this was a good ship-although Gus came to distrust the blond fella who kept challenging the Cap'n. But Captain Marcus handled him, Billy was his name, and seemed also to be giving that one a closer look. Gus' worries had drained away. The Cap'n was a canny fellow who looked after his crew and did not play the dictator. He seemed a nice sort who was gonna take care of his nephew like he should. Sounded something like how a gentleman should behave. Maybe--  
  
Gus didn't always stop and think; sometimes he acted on instinct. This was one of those times. He went forward and called after the Cap'n. "Would now be a right bad time to have a word wi' ye, Sir?"  
  
Marcus turned at the sound of the unknown voice, realizing immediately it belonged to the other new man. "Now is fine, if you don't mind coming inside the cabin. I need to check on my nephew." Nephew. He would have to get used to using this word. For the moment it felt strange - like a lie, he realized. Well, it was, but one he would have to live with. He had told the crew all he was prepared to about his complicated past experiences, and the vague conclusions and plain guesses those experiences had led him to understand about Martin. There was still a lot he did not fully understand himself yet. He wondered if he ever would. "You can give me a hand, unless you are squeamish about that kind of thing."  
  
"Nay, that be fine by me, Cap'n. Martin you said his name was. I'll help any way I can." He climbed up the steep stairs / ladder, and followed the Captain inside the cabin. He saw the pillars and brass bar at the bottom, and swallowed a bit. He had seen and heard enough to know what they were for.  
  
Marcus was speaking. "Thank you. What is your name? Everything has been topsy turvy since Martin..Usually I meet the new men first thing and get an understanding of what they are like. But I got worried about Martin, and then he gave me some trouble, and I have been worried about doing the right thing. He is so afraid of pirates." He saw the young man looking at the same thing that had so frightened Martin, and snapped, "I do not use it. Never have."  
  
Something in the man's voice made Gus believe him, and he would think about the rest of what that voice put in his mind later on. He decided on the spot that he liked this Cap'n. "Oh, beggin' yer pardon, Sir. I didn't mean nuthin'. My name's Gus. Gus Smith. I don't got no family, and I work hard, and if I had my violin still, I'd give anybody a tune when I'm not on shift. Now, what's the young fella need? Ya gonna keep all those chains on him?"  
  
That was the very question Marcus was considering. "I sure do not want to, Gus." He was standing over Martin, and took the opportunity to check that head wound from last night. James and Scar had not exactly taken special care when bandaging it. "Wet a cloth, Gus. Maybe we can get him cleaned up a bit before he wakes up. And...yes, I think we'll get some of those chains off. Help me out here."  
  
The wound did not look too bad. It just needed a new bandage after washing. But that hair was an impossible mess. The blood in there made it look like it belonged to some ferocious animal. Marcus wet a washcloth and put some soap on it and rubbed it gently over Martin's hair, and after rinsing the cloth, did the same thing. It did not get the hair completely clean, but it did help it look much better. Now it was time to do something about those chains. "Help me out here, Gus."  
  
Gus liked the care Cap'n Marcus was showing. So he helped where he could and soon Martin was still chained down, but as comfortable as he could be made. At least he was lying on a matress. "Ya got one of those nice big beds, here, Cap'n. You intend t' use the other side? There be plenty of room.""  
  
"No," said Marcus, quickly and flatly. "Martin is on the far side because he is afraid of the pillars." He sighed and rubbed his face with one hand, until his hand encountered some of the painful evidence that Martin had good aim. "Everything came with the cabin, Gus." Marcus looked around. It was a pretty typical cabin, if smaller than would be found on some of the grander vessels. The room was nigh on twelve feet by twelve, and contained two portholes on opposite sides, a wash stand with basin and pitcher, well anchored for bad weather, a doored cabinet for maps and belongings, a smaller cabinet for weapons, a small clothes press, and a bounty of sconces for candles or lanterns. And of course those pillars, and some rings on the wall Marcus used to hang tapers and clothes instead of chained boys.. But the bed was nice, if one ignored the iron rings and such on the frame, some of which were now unfortunately put to the use for which they were intended. The whole thing was as wide as two regular berths and hung from the ceiling by wrist-thick ropes, so the ship could sway while the bed stayed level, allowing the sleep of the captain to be undisturbed by anything but the worst of storms. "We better hurry and get him cleaned up. I am surprised he has been out cold this long."  
  
Marcus turned to Gus when Martin was washed and relatively comfortable. "You have been a big help, Gus. Thank you."  
  
"No big thing," replied Gus with a warm smile, for he was unused to much courtesy. And then his eyes fell on something in the corner, in a cabinet. A fiddle. He swallowed, but said nothing. But he felt his whole insides practically call out in yearning. A fiddle! Music! "Do you play, Cap'n?"  
  
"Do I play?" What--? Oh, the lad was staring at Robert's violin. "No. It belonged to a friend, almost a father-figure to me in a lot of ways. I keep it in his memory." Marcus turned away from it and looked again around the cabin, finally unlatching the porthole nearest Martin, so if he came to and looked out, he could see the sky. He might appreciate some fresh air, too.  
  
He turned once more to Gus. "I do not want to leave Martin alone now, but I have duties. Do you mind sitting with him? You can turn the request down."  
  
"Oh, I don't mind, Cap'n," said Gus with a ready smile.  
  
"Thank you. I appreciate this. But.I will need your word of honor that you will not touch him or hurt him, and if he wakes, you will come get me straight off, no dillydally."  
  
"Aye, Cap'n. You have my word." He watched as Marcus checked his nephew's breathing and awkwardly plumped the pillow just a little. "I think that is all I can do for him right now. Are you sure you do not mind?"  
  
Gus tried to keep his eyes from that fiddle. He noted the cabinet it was in wasn't locked. Which didn't mean nuthin, since it was the captain's personal property, and to touch it would mean he'd as good as disobeyed a direct order - something that meant big trouble on any ship. "Nah. I like t' help out. I'll come git ya right away if he wakes up, my word, Cap'n."  
  
Marcus smiled briefly. "Thanks, Gus." He stared long at Martin, and then quickly left the cabin.  
  
Gus saw the cabin only had one chair, and he didn't feel right about sitting down in it, for it belonged to the ship's captain. So he went to the porthole and looked out, turning often to look at Martin, and acutely aware that he wanted to play that fiddle. He withstood the temptation.  
  
*****  
  
How come each time he woke up lately he woke up with a headache? Only this time the main pain was lower, somewhere in his jaw. Automatiacally he tried to reach up and feel the side of his head. He couldn't. At that point Spot finally opened his eyes.  
  
Great! His wrists were chained together, locked to a chain around his waist, and there was a gag in his mouth. Pirates! In case anyone was interested, he hated chains! He especially hated being chained to.a bed! He quickly assessed his situation, and realized it could be worse. His ankles were chained together, meaning that he was not in as...vulnerable a position as it could be. That did not change the fact that the situation already had his heart pounding hard again, and he could feel his anger rising.  
  
When he turned his head to check how the chains were fixed to the bed he realized that he was not alone. There was a man over at the porthole, maybe a little older than Spot himself, looking directly at him. Had he seen him before? He thought so, but when and where he would sort out later. He had something elso on his mind now.  
  
After about two seconds of eye contact Spot turned his head back and, ignoring the man, started systematically testing the chains. God, he was angry!  
  
Gus turned from the porthole at the first sounds of stirring from the Cap'n's nephew. He watched how the young fella woke up, and noticed what he noticed, and something in his mind went on alert and tried to be calming all at once. He'd think later.  
  
He'd expected a greeting...was just about to give one when Martin turned away and began to methodically try to find a weakness in the chains. Gus felt he had to speak up then. "Oh, Cap'n and me--I'm Gus, the other new man aboard, took the same night you was, in fact!--we made you comfortable, and the Cap'n even gentle-like washed your hair a bit. He's real worried about you. Oh! I've got to fetch him! He told me to."  
  
Gus ran to the door and threw it open hard, but not so it banged. He yelled down to a hand on the main deck, "Get Cap'n Marcus! Tell him Martin woke up!"  
  
Despite the fact that Spot was seemingly ignoring the guy he paid just enough attention to understand what was being said. So, Gus was the fella's name; good to know, although not very interesting. And how he talked about that Captain! Jeez, you really are of the trusting kind, aren't you? Well, here's some bad news for you, fella: The world is a cruel place and you had better learn to watch out for yourself.  
  
Damn, these chains were strong! This was in no way his definition of comfortable. Think about it, Gus-guy. If these pirates are all nice, what do they need all the chains for? Not to mention certain other devices that he could see in this cabin...No! No, don't even think of it. You have to stay calm. Stay calm. Just concentrate. There has to be a weakness somewhere.  
  
*****  
  
"Hey, Cap'n, Sir," yelled one of the riggers down to Captain Marcus. "That new guy, Gus, just called fer ya, says yer nephew woke up."  
  
Marcus had not heard Gus, but he heard the rigger. "Thanks," he called upwards before turning and working his way along the deck until he reached the stairs up to his cabin. Gus was waiting. "Good lad." He longed to ask how Martin had been upon awakening, but he quickly saw for himself. Angry, possibly sullen, and still determined to find any weakness he could in his bonds.  
  
"Gus, leave us now. Go to the galley and tell Cook I want a hot meal prepared for Martin, something I can spoon feed him if that is necessary. Hearty, but easy on the stomach. Come back in an hour with the food. Get yourself something to eat while you wait. Cook always has stuff around."  
  
"Aye, Cap'n! I didn't notice till right now, but I am a mite hungry." He smiled and hurried off.  
  
Marcus closed the door after Gus, and turned to Martin. He spoke quietly, but with a touch of sad authority. "I have the keys on my belt. I cannot let you loose until you are no longer a danger to yourself or anybody else. I thought I made that clear before." Making sure Martin could see him do it, he put the ring of keys in a drawer in his desk. He also put down any knife or weapon Martin might get his hands on if Marcus got too near. In his current emotional state the boy was dangerous. He would not forget that, no matter how well he understood.  
  
He knew Martin had seen some of the things that were kept in the cabin, things kept there simply because they had been there when Marcus became captain. Iron rings could hold things other than chained victims.clothes, for the most part. The rings reminded him of his own painful youth spent aboard ships, and made him determined not to be that way to anyone who served with him.  
  
Martin would not believe him. So he only said, "If I wanted to use you that way, lad, I would already have; I have had ample opportunity. Have I hurt you in any way you did not bring upon yourself? Have I allowed others to hurt you when I could prevent it? Do you see floggers or whips or canes? There are none here. Are you as you were as a cabin boy, with no clothes and hands pawing you constantly, words and threats constantly scaring you witless while you are so helpless? Have I not done everything to try to calm you?"  
  
Marcus stopped talking, feeling it was no use, but hoping something he had said had reached the boy.  
  
His words were heard, but not in the way they were intended. The moment he heard the footsteps, even before the Captain appeared in the doorway, Spot ceased his efforts with the chains. He watched, every single detail. Details mattered. He had learned to watch out for them. Listening was also important, although he gave the appearance that nothing could interest him less. But as the Captain kept talking, slowly that mask drained away and he stared daggers at Marcus again. If not for the gag, he would give the man some hard but really true answers!  
  
I am a danger to someone: ha! What, without the chains I would run around and try to hurt people, like, say, chain them to a bed? At these thoughts he gave the chains another angry pull.  
  
No Sir, I do not believe a word. 'If I wanted to use you that way, lad, I would already have.' All good and well, but was has not happened yet can still happen in the future. Hawk always took his own time, enjoyed drawing things out. You might have had ample opportunity, only that most of the time I was unconcious anyway, so what would have been the fun?  
  
Hands touching him, words, threats, endless fear... Damn, the man knew what he was talking about! Please no, it could not happen again.  
  
Spot had not realized that he had closed his eyes and was drifting into old memories. With some effort of will he pulled himself together and back to the present. His eyes rested on the Captain with calm determination. He would endure whatever came his way, but take any chance to escape, do anything that was necessary. He had killed for his freedom once, and he was ready to do it again.  
  
Marcus could see he had failed to reach Martin at all. The world felt too big and too hard. He did not know what to do. So he went to stand over the boy--no, young man. He voice was quiet. "I am going to check your forehead wound, and take the gag off. Do not try to bite me, for I used that trick myself. I will only touch what I have to to treat your injuries. I am sorry about your jaw, but you were in a frenzy, and I only know one cure for that."  
  
Carefully he removed the gag, and then the bandage on Martin's forehead. The cut looked closed; he decided to leave it uncovered. But the bruise on Martin's jaw was more swollen. He found the cloth which had fallen off the bruise, and re-wetted it with cool water. He put it on the bruise, taking care to avoid teeth, should Martin go that course. The lad did not. Marcus was not sure whether or not he should take that as a good sign.  
  
"If you cause the cloth to fall off, I will just let the bruise be, for I will not force treatment on you."  
  
He sat down in his chair and ran his hands through his sun-lightened hair, turning his back to Martin after awhile. In a few minutes, his peace was disturbed by a knock on his door. Feeling old and weary, he went to answer it.  
  
It was Wilson, with his laundry. "Got it washed, here ya go, Cap'n'."  
  
"Thanks, Wilson. Good job."  
  
Since Martin seemed to want to be ignored, he ignored him while being acutely aware of him. He put the wet shirts and breeches on the clean floor, then got the rope he strung between the poles. He hung his laundry up to dry as usual, pegging it to the line in case the seas roughened. He also opened the porthole on that side of the cabin, to give the place more air.  
  
Still ignoring Martin, Marcus returned to the desk. Might as well scan the maps again, he thought. He hoped Gus would return soon with food. The situation felt somewhat awkward. He leaned over to the cabinet built into the wall next to the desk. Opened, it revealed two neatly folded shirts, another pair of breeches, and the shoes he had worn the previous day. It also held the Spanish sword he had taken, which belonged to Martin. And on upper shelves, there were paper,ink, quill, and a slew of rolled maps.  
  
Marcus selected one, and closed the cabinet.  
  
Once the gag was removed, Spot experimentally moved his jaw and found that although his teeth still hurt there did not seem to be any serious damage. Well, one point in your favor, Captain!  
  
He also had not bitten, although he felt a very strong urge to try it, but he was calm enough now to realize that it would gain him nothing. No, it was better to behave and wait for a chance! So he let everything happen with a stoic calm, not offering any comment, encouragement or protest-in short, he did not react visibly at all.  
  
What he did was watch, carefully. Some things that he saw did not fully register, or fit. That laundry line for example, that was something he had not seen before. The conversation was strange. Where was the bite from the Captain, the fear in the crewman? The Captain hanging laundry? That did not fit into any situation Spot had ever found himself in on board a ship.  
  
He did not expect it to be easy. But this Captain.it would take a while to figure out this Captain.  
  
When the cabinet was opened, he turned his head and strained a little more against the chains than he already unconciously did, to see what was inside. It was not easy, but he got a good look. There was.. nothing. Except for some personal items there was nothing that could tell him what might await him. He bit his lip and was tempted to ask, but did not do it in the end. Questions were seldom answered with anything but threats or lies. The truth.he would find that out soon enough.  
  
But there was the sword, Hawk's sword! If he could get his hands on it! It had bought him freedom once; maybe it would do so again.  
  
*****  
  
Marcus was studying the map closely. It was only to fill the rest of the hour before Gus returned with the meal for Martin. He did not need to look over any of the charts or maps. He knew this one well enough that his eyes barely even saw it. What they saw was a pair of furious green eyes.  
  
He rolled up the map and got out parchment and writing supplies. He had to concentrate when he practiced his letters, so he began to laboriously write. But he discovered he kept writing one word--a name. Martin. He wondered.. Maybe they could have a conversation after all.  
  
He turned to...he had better start thinking of Martin as his nephew. He turned to his nephew and asked very conversationally, because he was curious. "Do you know how to read and write?"  
  
For some reason Spot was startled when he was suddenly addressed. His breath caught in his throat and he stiffened even more, but managed to get himself under control again soon.  
  
Dammit, boy, you are not fifteen anymore! Pull yourself together!  
  
Still, he blinked at the question for a while. Read and write? This was the very first time anyone-including himself-had ever even thought about that.  
  
"No." It was all he could say in his astonishment.  
  
Marcus decided to ignore the way the lad acted like a skittish colt. He got up very slowly, but not too slowly, and approached Martin, and very absentmindedly (or so it would look, for nothing Marcus did around Martin could ever truly be uncalculated yet) put the cloth back over the bruise. "Would you like to see what your name looks like? I can teach you how to read and write, if you would like. It will open up whole new doors to your future. You could be anything you dreamed of being."  
  
It worked. When he concentrated on it he could be calm. Just don't let yourself drift into memories! He hardly blinked when he saw the Captain walk over to him.  
  
That changed when he heard the question. Then he blinked a lot, in confusion. Me? Learn to read? What kind of game is this? My future? Well, thank you Sir, but I'm very much busy with the present at the moment. See, I have a bit of a problem here, called CHAINS!  
  
"I don't have any...dreams."  
  
Only when he had finished that sentence did he realize just how much it was true. He had always lived from day to day, hoping that the next one would be a good one, or at least not bad.  
  
Since he was lying on the bed he could not lower his head and look at the floor. He averted his eyes and stared instead at the ropes that held the bed aloft. He did not notice the cool cloth again fall from the bruise on his jaw.  
  
Marcus watched everything closely. He saw the flash of surprise, then anger, the tightening of Martin's wrist muscles. And then the draining of the anger. He almost replied in astonishment when Martin admitted he had no dreams. Without dreams, what did anyone have? Without dreams, how could one move on from the past into the future? The boy needed dreams.  
  
Marcus wanted to run his hands through his own hair, or soothe Martin, but he knew any moves he made had to be carefully thought out, so instead he nodded. He had to avoid touching Martin at all. He did not even put the cloth back on the bruise, since it would only fall off again. So he said, his voice a little sad, but hopeful, "I had none when I was your age, too." He would not mention Robert yet, his father-figure, who had patiently won his trust. For a moment he wondered what it had been like for Robert when they first met. Had it been anything like this? "But I do now! I want to be legitimate, a merchant. It is my dream, so I am learning my letters. Would you like to see what your name looks like? I wrote it down."  
  
That was a bit much for Spot to digest at once. A merchant, and legitimate?  
  
Excuse me Sir, but you are a pirate, I do not know whether you are a very successful one, but a pirate. And if I understand aright, you go about kidnapping people for your crew. Sorry, but does not look like you plan to give up the trade in the near future. Really, I will believe it when I see it!  
  
But the offer was appealing. He was curious. "Yes."  
  
Then he started to think about that offer and found it odd. For a short moment he was too confused to be frightened. "Why? Why did you write my name?"  
  
Marcus' hopeful smile faltered at Martin's suspicion. He turned and looked out the porthole. The question had caught him off guard. Of course Martin was suspicious of everything he did. Would not he have been? Had not he been? So why was he doing everything wrong with this young man? He should have anticipated.  
  
He turned halfway and did not look at Martin. In a very sad voice, soft so even he barely heard it, he said, "I know you cannot think worse of me than you do. And I understand that. I know you think...It does not even matter what I say or do. All that is real are chains and being taken against your will." He took a deep breath and went on. "Do you know why I took you? You did not look like a pirate. I do not like pirates. I like those who have some humanity in them, and so I avoid the pirates. The bad kind. Sure," he continued, turning to Spot, and his voice was now angry with himself. "Sure I could go into any tavern and shout, 'I need three able bodies for my ship!'--and the ones who answered would be hard and heartless. And at night I would not sleep for knowing that someone wanted to cut out my heart and feed it to me so he could have my ship, or raise another rung on the ladder. So I pick orphans with humanity. I picked you. Sorry, but we both have to live with it now."  
  
He took a deep breath and tried to let go of the anger he felt at his life, how it had made him what he was, and why he did what he did. He fastened on what was in his hand. He held out the paper to Martin. With his voice under control, he spoke. "Here. Here is what your name looks like in letters."  
  
At first Spot had winced at the slowly raising voice. Although there was no real menace, there was anger in it. His instincts kicked in. If he could he would have turned and run. But he could not and soon the upcoming fear was replaced by an equally strong emotion: anger. For now he ignored the paper with the letters on it and kept his eyes fixed on the Captain. His voice was shaking, but loud enough to understand-and it also grew louder as he spoke. "Well, maybe you are wrong. Maybe I am not the right guy. What tells you that I am not hard and heartless? I do not care about you. I do not care about this ship! And I would gladly cut your throat, at night or at any time I got the chance. Have a nice sleep and I hope you have no trouble living with that!"  
  
He was still steaming with rage when he looked at the letters.  
  
They looked beautiful to him.  
  
He swallowed. There were many beautiful things in the world, he had caugh glimpses of much. But these things were not for him. He would not learn how to write, just as he had not fully learned how to play the flute or use the sword properly. He stared at the writing, but at the same time he felt like burying his head in his hands. He could not, so he kept staring.  
  
Marcus felt his emotions tumbling, like he was being beaten by Martin's raging words. He would have taken a step back, but his own rising anger-- and very real pride--kept him from doing that. It was on the tip of his tongue to rage back at this impossible, distrusting problem he had saddled himself with. He wanted to yell at him to give up his clinging to stubbornness, and have a little heart, even if he had to re-invent it to have it! Those words stung, and Marcus felt them to his gut. And he did not like them at all.  
  
If Martin did not ease up, he would end up in chains until they reached the next port, a month away! And if it took that long, he would never reach the boy, which would mean dumping him ashore. And Martin's soul would be lost. Marcus hated the possibility of that.  
  
But it existed. He was about to shout back some of his fears when he saw the way Martin stared at the paper. At his name. It seemed to change him, give him something to focus on besides rage.  
  
So Marcus checked his own anger and fears, and he stepped a little closer, and pointed to each letter as he sounded out the name, patiently, like a teacher. "There, see? Not so hard, once you know how these things work. M-a- r-t-i-n." Suddenly he had thrust the paper into the lad's hands. "You keep it. You can study it, trace the letters with your finger."  
  
Marcus felt suddenly weary. He did not want to watch the boy crumple the paper into a ball and toss it to the deck. So he turned quickly back to his desk and sat down, his back to Martin. He said, quietly, his fingers tangled in his own hair as he rested his head in his hands, "If I was anything like the monster you believe me to be, I would have beaten you to a bloody pulp for raising your voice to me and had you on your knees for me to use instead of offering to teach you how to read and write." 


	4. Past and Present

Chapter 4: Past and Present  
  
"I'm not sure what I can believe," Spot said in a barely audible whisper, neither caring if the Captain heard him or looking in his direction.  
  
It was a good thing that the paper with his name was in his hand, because it gave him something to concentrate on while his mind was running in circles until he felt dizzy. His instinct and reason were screaming at each other although none of them seemed fully convinced of their point.  
  
For the first time since he had awakened, the unconscious struggle against the chains had ceased and his body relaxed. For the moment he was too confused to even panic. Things just did not fit together. The kidnapping, the letters, his headache, words, promises, fear. It seemed unreal, frighteningly so. What was real were the chains that were holding him motionless, and deep inside he knew there had to be something coming.  
  
But the paper in his hand was also real. What was going on? For the first time in two years he might have cried but for the fact that he had used up his tears long ago.  
  
Marcus kept his fingers tangled in his hair as Martin spoke, not looking at him, either. "I know, lad. You've known nothing but abuse for only you know how long, and it won't be easy to think of others as not wanting to harm you."  
  
He pulled open the drawer of his desk where the keys to the chains were. He knew the rattle of them would scare Martin, but truth was, he wasn't sure which key was to the wrist chains. He confessed as much to Martin. "I'm going to unlock those and get them off you, because...I trust you not to go berserk again. And I figure you'll be wanting to feed yourself when that food arrives, else I'll have to feed you, and...it's more dignified if you get to feed yourself. You can't slip out of the rest of the chains anyway." He sighed. "You're only chained at all because I know you would attack me or my crew until you believe we don't want to hurt you in any way. When you believe that, I'll free you completely. I won't have you hurting someone and then throwing yourself overboard. We're too far out for you to survive the chill in the water."  
  
He found the right key for the manacles and as quickly as he could had them off Martin and tossed into a corner where the young man could see them, see that nobody would go near them unless he gave them cause to. "And that's my word to you. There they stay if you don't get wild again. You were hurting yourself as much as anybody else." He knew Martin would not believe him, so he changed the subject and forced cheer into his voice. "You can study that paper with your name, and rest a bit, and soon the food will be here. Cook's good! It won't be the swill you might have had before." He turned away again as he put the keys back in the desk. "I always got swill," he said, voicing a memory he did not realize he spoke aloud.  
  
Spot had felt for a little while like he was floating alone in space, not knowing where he was, trying to figure out thoughts and feelings that just didn't fit together. The rattle of key brought him back to earth. No. His eyes focused again and he saw the Captain walk over. His breath caught in his throat as his whole body became again as stiff as a piece of wood. Don't touch me don't touch me don't touch me don't touch me...  
  
But he listened and a hint of a smile appeared on his face - as much of a smile as his clenched teeth allowed.  
  
Oh yes, Captain Sir, I'm just waiting for my chance. But don't worry, it isn't my plan to throw myself over board in the middle of the ocean. No, dying was not an option. It had never been.  
  
He moved his hands and rubbed his wrists, although he had to admit that they didn't hurt as much as he was used to by far. His eyes were fixed on the chains in the corner - off for now, but still near enough to be at hand. He still listened, but the words didn't fully register.  
  
*****  
  
Gus had waited and waited while the Cook--a big Scotsman named Angus-- prepared a meal fitting for a king or the captain himself. If this was the fare aboard the Black Arrow, he'd have no complaints at all! He had chatted some with Angus, who seemed more willing to talk than some cooks, except he made it clear to Gus to keep out of his way and to not let his big feet trip up his peg leg. Gus readily agreed and sat down to a thick piece of tasty bread and an apple, and the two talked about nothing in particular. Eventually, the young man got up the nerve to ask about the Captain's fiddle.  
  
"Oh, that," replied Angus. "Had a benefactor, did our Cap'n. Nice hand named Robert, who took over like a father to him when he needed it, so I hears. Robert was a right cheery sort, and played that fiddle like a gent courtin' a lady careful, and then surprising her with a right merry dance!" He nodded, and smiled a bit sadly, lost in thought.  
  
Gus waited a bit, but ventured to ask, "What happened? Is this Robert on ship?"  
  
"Nay, lad," spoke Angus, his voice edged with sadness. "Died. Nigh on two year ago. Cap'n took it hard, but he says he's gonna find Robert's son and take care uv 'im, like he promised Robert. Like a son. He seems to have collected another relative already, that wild young 'un, his nephew there. Ya got any insights there? I'm not a big gossipper, cooks gotta be discreet."  
  
"Oh," said Gus, not sure what to say. "Martin's turrible afeared o' pirates, and I don't rightly think he knew he had a pirate Uncle. Cap'n is being real nice though. Don't think he's used to havin' a nephew, but he'll do right by 'im. He seems a good sort. D'ya think he might let someone play that fiddle?"  
  
Angus snorted. "He don't let no one touch it! But we aint had no musician aboard since Robert went to the deeps, so I don't rightly think it ever came up. Why, lad? Ya seem awful curious about that musicmaker."  
  
Gus put his chin in his hands, watching Angus put the finishing touches on the tray with a lot of food on it. "I miss my own fiddle. It got broke."  
  
Angus stilled in what he was doing and a smile split his face in half. "You play, then?"  
  
Gus nodded a small nod. "Aye."  
  
"Wellll, that changes things. You take this food to Cap'n and his nephew, and there's a bit more for you when ya brings the tray back. And you asks Cap'n Marcus if he'll let you play that fiddle, and I bet he says yes. If'n ya wants me t' ask him fer ya, I'd be right pleased ta! Be nice having music aboard again!"  
  
Gus smiled, and his eyes brightened. "If'n I can fit it into the conversation, I'll ask. If'n I can't, I'll let ya do it, Angus. One way or the other, we'll see if we don't have that lady singin' again right quick! I'll treat her gentle, that's a promise!"  
  
He took the tray and noted that Angus had put the stew into big tin mugs, along with spoons and forks, and even napkins. He'd done some anticipating! Mugs would be easier for someone on a bed to handle. And the bread was already sliced and buttered.  
  
Gus hurried to the Cap'n's cabin and carefully balanced everything while he knocked with his elbow. "It's the food, Cap'n!" he called out. "Smells and looks good enough to eat!"  
  
He would find a way to ask about that fiddle. That thought cheered him even more than knowing they wouldn't be eating no poor vittles aboard this ship!  
  
The knock on the door made Spot's head jerk around and his breath caught again, this time audibly. Dammit Martin, relax! It's just some guy bringing food... Food was a good idea. Spot closed his eyes for a moment and forced his breath into a calm and even pattern. Much better.  
  
Captain Marcus was at the cabin door in an instant. He had noticed Martin's tension, and tried to pretend not to. The food was just what was needed. He thanked Gus and took the tray to his desk, put down his own meal on the smooth wood surface, and then said as he turned, "Can you balance the tray? It's good food, Martin, and while you've not eaten in...well, you will find this fare agreeable even when you are used the three meals we serve aboard the Black Arrow." He placed the tray across Martin's stomach, and helped him to sit a little bit higher by adding a pillow behind him, under the one already there so he need not touch the young man. As he added the pillow, he loosened the chain just enough that the pressure remained the same across Martin's chest, while not compromising security. He knew Martin had meant it when he said he'd slit his throat to gain his freedom.  
  
******  
  
It was night, and Marcus found that he had lost the knack of sleeping on the floor. Or maybe it was that he had never had anyone chained to his bed before, let alone a lad who was scared to death of and therefore hated pirates. Whatever the reason, it was a highly unnusual and awkward situation, and he could not sleep.  
  
It had been a long day. During lunch, Marcus had taken the paper with Martin's name on it and tied it with a string to the nearest of the four thick ropes holding the bed suspended from the ceiling. There Martin could study it, but not worry about it falling from his hands where he could not reach it.  
  
For part of the afternoon Marcus had tended his duties on deck, and then made sure Martin had a good dinner. Now the lad seemed to be sleeping, but not easily. After lunch, there had seemed little enough to say that was safe, so he had kept to himself, and left Martin alone while he went about his duties.  
  
That was when Calton had come to him, calm, gentle, dependable Calton. His first mate had been waiting for him when he left the cabin, and the look on his face had told him that he had something serious on his mind. And as usual he did not wait far a question to state it. That was Calton: he did his work in the background, like a pillar that is holding up the whole house and was seldom recognized for its worth. Marcus recognized his worth, and his calm manner and loyaly, which did not keep him from giving his Captain a push in the right direction from time to time.  
  
"You never told me of a nephew," he had said in a tone of voice that told Marcus that he did not believe the story but would accept it if he wanted to stick with it for now. "You might want to be careful. There's gossip starting out among the crew, and not all of it is friendly.  
  
Now Marcus was thinking about that. He knew Calton was keeping a close eye on things; he always did. So at least there were unlikely to be any bad surprises – not counting what Martin surely still had in store for them. His arrival on the Black Arrow had certainly jumbled things up a bit.  
  
For seemingly the five hundredth time, Marcus shifted to get into a hopefully more comfortable position, without much success. He had thought about taking his usual place on the other side of the bed, but given up that notion almost as soon as it had come to him. Martin was still too frightened, and he would get the wrong idea.  
  
But Marcus was miserable on the hard deck. He began thinking about what would solve the problem, and he got an idea. He would make the lad a hammock, and that would help him, for he would have his own place to sleep and Marcus could have his own bed back!  
  
Finally he gave up on sleep entirely and sat up with his back to the cabin wall. Martin, too, was having a hard time sleeping. Marcus wondered if it was worth it to go down to the galley and prepare a sleeping draught. He decided to do that, and went silently out, nodding to the men on duty through the night. He enjoyed a look at the stars and the moon, big and almost full, directly in front of the ship. Too bad Martin was missing this beautiful view!  
  
That thought reminded him to go get that draught. He made it a bit strong, and returned to his cabin. If Martin slept well into the next morning, it would not hurt him any, and Marcus and the ship could do with some peace and quiet for a while.  
  
*****  
  
It had taken almost two hours for Spot to finally fall asleep. That was not due to the discomfort of being chained and therefore unable to move. No, he had slept in all kinds of...situations. What kept him awake was his mind that stayed in a state of alert and made it impossible for him to relax and find sleep. Finally, however, his exhaustion, both physical and mental, had reached the point where he simply drifted off...  
  
He hit the deck, hard, as hard as the five times before when they pulled him out of the water just in time to stop him from drowning in earnest and let him catch a little breath before...  
  
No, Spot thought, this had to be the last time, he wouldn't be able to make it through another round. He was utterly exhausted. The cold of the water had drained him, as had the constant fight for the next breath of air. The fact that the ties were painfully cutting into his wrists and ankles was of such a minor importance that he didn't even feel it as he lay there on the deck, gasping for air, retching and coughing up more and more water.  
  
The worst, however, was the thirst. It was driving him mad already and he knew that with all the salt water that he had swallowed it would become much worse fast.  
  
There was laughter all around him, but he barely heard it over his own coughing.  
  
Steps- Heavy steps getting closer...a pair of boots stopping right in front of him. No doubt that was the Captain, crouching down to assess if the punishment was going as it should. Cold, almost colorless eyes looked down at him.  
  
"Had enough?"  
  
Spot raised his head a little to look up at that face and took as deep a breath as he could and tried to speak, but it took three tries before he finally managed to utter a word.  
  
"Water?"  
  
The Captain broke into a smile, a smile that lacked any humor or warmth. It was cold and cruel. On his hawk-like face it looked like a caricature. He grabbed Spot's chin and brought his face close to his. When he spoke his voice was full of mock friendliness that could make a boy shiver.  
  
"You are thirsty, aren't you? Maybe you should have thought about that before you tried to run away."  
  
He let go of Spot and straightened. Then followed the order that the boy had dreaded above all. "Take him to my cabin."  
  
"No!"  
  
Spot's eyes snapped open. He heard his own ragged breathing as he stared at the darkness in front of him. He would have jumped up and run blindly if not for those chains holding him back. It took him almost a minute to realize that he had just experienced a very vivid nightmare.  
  
A nightmare? He did not have nightmares, usually, at least none that replayed parts of his past. Ususally...Usually he would have gotten up and taken a walk along the shore, except that now he was on a ship and there was no shore anywhere in sight to walk along, even if he could move.  
  
He let out another sound that sounded far too much like a sob for his liking. No, come on boy, you got past this a long time ago! Calm down, calm down. It was just a dream! Just a dream...  
  
After some time, it might have been a minute or ten, he had himself back under control and started to relax - until he turned his head and realized that the Captain was standing there near the door.  
  
"How long have you been standing there?" Usually he would not have dared to ask such an outright question, but he had to know.  
  
Marcus knew it could not be seen in the darkness--he was just a silhouette against the night sky and the sails which were a silvery gray in the starlight. But his own face had drained of color ten minutes ago when he got to the cabin and realized he had arrived in the midst of Martin in the cold grip of a nightmare.  
  
While the lad had awakened with the suddenly voiced, "No!", it was by no means all he had said. So Marcus had a good idea of what the nightmare had been about. While there were any number of reasons one might beg for water in such a desperate gasp, none of them were good. And the look of terror on his face spoke for itself.  
  
Suddenly, Martin turned and saw him, and asked that question.  
  
The lad was entitled to some privacy, some dignity. No doubt he had been given little enough of either at the hands of anyone. So Marcus lied, stepping into the room and putting the draught on his desk before reaching for a match. He lit a small oil lamp, and kept the flame high enough to see by, to show the cabin to the boy, but low enough not to trouble tired eyes. Then he picked up the sleeping draught again. Thank the Lord it did not taste particularly bad. "I was just coming back in. You nearly made me drop the cup here. I'm sorry I woke you."  
  
He stood beside Martin, wondering what to do next, and decided directness was best, even if it meant telling yet another white lie. "I noticed earlier you were running a bit of a fever, and there's no doubt I am to blame for that, so I went to get you some medicinal tea. Here, lad. It will get rid of that fever by morning. It's not poison." He took a small sip of it, not enough to make him sleepy. "See?" He gave the cup to Martin and turned his back, to give the lad some privacy. He half expected to see the cup and contents sail through the air or bounce off his person, but they didn't.  
  
When he turned back, he took the drained mug from Martin. Then he very carefully straightened the blanket over him, and in so doing reassured himself the draught was indeed inside Martin, and not soaking his own bed somewhere he could not see it.  
  
He put the mug on the desk, and left the lamp lit. Marcus then lay back down on his blanket on the deck, where Martin could see him if he turned his head, and hear him if he did not. He made as if to sleep.  
  
Within fifteen minutes, Martin was transformed by the relaxation of real, untroubled sleep. Marcus got up and stood over the lad. So young. So hurt inside he would not have trusted an Angel answering his prayers.  
  
Marcus acted on instinct. He wrapped the boy in his arms and hugged him tight, and kissed his hair. A fatherly embrace and kiss. How often at that age had he prayed for something like human kindness to touch him and just hold him and keep the fears away, and not want anything in return!  
  
But Marcus realized he did want something: he wanted Martin to come to trust him, and through him, others. And through that he would give the world back something that he had received, and pass on some of Robert's spirit. "Learning to trust is a big obstacle, I know," he said to the sleeping boy. "But if you overcome so much lack of trust, Martin, it would give you a chance at a full life, full of love and friends, maybe someday a wife and children...A real life, not just day-to-day existence and unresting suspicion. I want to help you. Let me help you, Martin. That's all I want." But he knew it would not be easy.  
  
He settled him as he had been, and arranged the blanket the same way. And leaned down and kissed the damp forehead. The lad did have a bit of a fever, and the medicine would help that, but still, Marcus made a mental note to keep checking on that fever.  
  
He stopped and looked toward the door. He saw Gus, silhouetted against the stars and sails. He finished settling Martin, and went to the door, and closed it after he had gone outside.  
  
"What can I do for you, Gus?"  
  
*****  
  
It always took awhile to get used to a new berth in a new ship. Gus was down in a bunkhouse with fourteen other men, some snoring softly, one seeming to cut logs, but luckily he did it with his face half stuffed into his pillow as he lay on his stomach and faced the other way. How his back could stand the dip in the hammock was beyond Gus, but he kept out of other people's affairs.  
  
He found his own hammock comfortable enough, and didn't mind the draft from the porthole, which blew air right across his face. In storm or winter that might be a problem, but for now he was content enough. It explained why this was the empty berth, though.  
  
Gus just could not find sleep, no matter how he tried. He had not gotten to ask the Captain anything, not even gotten to collect the tray afterwards, so he hadn't seen Angus to tell him he needed some help about that fiddle.  
  
The snorer suddenly rolled onto his back, and finally Gus realized that between the suddenly loud noise and the newness of everything, he was never going to get to sleep. Might as well go out on deck and find a coil of rope to try sleep on.  
  
He missed his fiddle. He wanted to ask the Captain about that fiddlebox in his cabin.  
  
He hadn't been out on deck five minutes before Captain Marcus stole into the galley. And Gus bit his lip, having a mighty argument with himself. Just ask him! Ask him about the fiddle! said a part of him. Another part laughed and reminded him of the time of night, his own lowly station, and the FACT that it was the Cap'n's fiddle. When the Cap'n went back to his cabin carrying a tin cup of some strange tea, he had decided not to say or do anything.  
  
That resolve changed twenty minutes later. Three times. Yes. No. Yes.  
  
Yes won. He got up resolutely and headed in his rolling walk toward the cabin of Captain Marcus.  
  
And hid outside the door as he heard the man comforting his nephew. He stepped into the open door and watched, and felt his throat constrict. Made him miss his mum. She'd been nice like that. But now she was up in Heaven, singing with the Angels, and that was no bad place to be.  
  
He was on the verge of turning around when the Captain shifted and saw him. Gus's mind registered the tangle of blankets and pillow on the floor, and that the other side of the Cap'n's own bed hadn't been slept in.  
  
Gus had wondered if he should turn and hurry away, not bother a man who was already dealing with tough problems.  
  
But Capt'n Marcus had just settled his nephew and come on out, not seeming to mind.  
  
"What can I do for you, Gus?"  
  
Gus was terribly torn. "Sorry, Cap'n, it's the middle o' the night and all, but I had trouble sleepin', see, and..."  
  
Marcus smiled and nodded, grateful that Gus had kept his voice low. "It takes awhile on a new ship, doesn't it?" He smiled. "They berthed you with the woodcutter, Henri, didn't they? Snores to be heard over a gale?"  
  
"Aye, Cap'n," smiled Gus.  
  
"And they gave you the berth next to the porthole?"  
  
"Aye," said Gus again, and now he was relaxed. "But I don' mind the porthole, nor the woodcutter, when he's facin' away."  
  
Marcus laughed and put his hand on Gus' shoulder. "I'll see what I can do to find you a different bunkhouse. Do you need another blanket? You're welcome to sleep on deck tonight, so long as you pick a spot out of the way."  
  
"Thankee, Cap'n." He hesitated.  
  
Marcus was good at reading people. And Gus was both a bit easier and a bit harder to read than most. "You didn't come to talk to me about the bunkhouse."  
  
"Aye..." Gus felt so torn! It wasn't his fiddle!  
  
"Sooooo, you came to talk about...?"  
  
"Yer nephew!" blurted Gus. It wasn't really what he had wanted to say at all, but for the moment his courage had left him and he leaped at the first thing that came to his mind. "He's feeling better? Looked to be sleepin' comfortable-like."  
  
Marcus could have so easily lied. But he liked Gus, and the lad might need the ally. Gus was the only one on board who was about the Matin's age, and also the only one from Sarentre. "No, Martin had a bad nightmare. I made him a sleeping draught. He's a little sick I think from exhaustion and fear and...hurting inside. He is so afraid of me. Of all of us."  
  
Gus couldn't help it. The question flew out of his mouth before he could catch it. "Why? Why's he afeared o' you s'much? And the crew aint bad a'tall, not compared to some."  
  
"Martin spent time on a very bad ship. I don't know which one, but I know he didn't work the deck."  
  
Gus swallowed. "Oh. Yah, I kinda wondered if mebbe it was somethin' like that. Why'd yer brother let him get took by pirates, Cap'n?"  
  
Marcus' voice was as soft as a feather and as sad as news of death. "My brother and I were not close. Martin might not even know about me," he lied. "And when I took him for my crew, he was just a young man I thought I could add to my crew, to work the decks, and instead I find myself looking right at visions of hell on earth when I look in his eyes, and feel his hatred of me and my crew. But he looks like my brother did at that age, and I know my nephew is named Martin." He was glad he could tell the truth with his last sentence. "All I want to do is help him."  
  
The pain in the cap'n's voice reached Gus right into his soul, and he put a hand on the man's as it gripped the railing. "I saw what you did fer 'im there, an' in time you'll reach 'im. If ye don't, it's cuz the devil got there first and burrowed so deep he'll be hard to shift, but even so, y'can win him back. I know it, Cap'n."  
  
Marcus smiled sadly, but hopefully. He felt just enough buoyed to keep going to the next step with Martin. "I hope so. And thank you, Gus. Now tell me why you came to me tonight."  
  
Gus turned to the railing and leaned against it with his elbows. "I wanted t' ask mebbe......"  
  
Marcus waited in silence. Gus was fighting something inside. It would come out in time. So he leaned his elbows against the rail and just waited.  
  
After a short while Gus blurted, "It's the fiddle! I saw it in yer cabin, Cap'n. I had one once. Some men were fightin' an' they broke it. I haven't played since, and I miss it turrible!" He couldn't bring himself to ask the question, but his eyes were pools of it.  
  
Robert's violin. Marcus stood and swallowed. Robert, who had shown him what he was trying so hard to show Martin, who had been as a father to him. Dead now almost two years, and missed every day. Robert's violin. Silent almost two years.  
  
Maybe it was time to let it sing again. He looked at Gus, unsure.  
  
But those pleading, yet proud eyes...so like Robert's. "Come see me in the morning, and let's see how that violin feels in your hand. This ship can use music."  
  
Gus's face and soul lit up like noon sun on a bright day, sending shadows into hiding. For a moment it looked like he was actually going to embrace Marcus. "Cap'n! I don' know how t' thank ye! I'll do anythin' fer ye!"  
  
"Your face is all the thanks I need, Gus. Come early. Martin should sleep a bit long--there is something you can do. Sit with Martin again, tomorrow morning until he wakes up. Don't let him know if you're doing it, but check for fever, and if you feel any, come tell me right away. If he has a bad dream...you could play something soft and soothing for him?"  
  
"Aye, Cap'n! I'd be right pleased t' do that! I know how to coax away fears with a fiddle. I know a nice tune for chasing away bad dreams and easing sleep. An' I'll keep an eye out for fever!"  
  
Marcus smiled. He'd have duties tomorrow, but he already decided that Martin was his first priority. "Hey, I've another idea. I was going to make a hammock for Martin--I can't sleep on that damn floor! I want my bed back. What if I hung two hammocks, and you could keep Martin company sometimes. It's an imposition, but in return, you can have access to the violin anytime. I need help making those hammocks, though."  
  
Gus chased away shadows again. "I can make 'em right nice and quick! Done it before--just need a bit of old sails, and a little wood, and some rope, and you got two hammocks!"  
  
Marcus chased away some shadows of his own. "Deal!"  
  
tbc... 


	5. Battle Fought

Chapter 5: Battle Fought  
  
Maybe there was no real reason why Spot had taken the cup and drank it like he was told. Maybe it was the thirst that he had awakened with. Or maybe it was simply because he felt too drained to struggle and knew that to simply drink what he was told to drink was far easier and less painful than having it poured down his throat by force. Whatever the reason, he hesitated only for a moment and then drank all of. It did not taste bad.  
  
Drained as he was the drug took effect immediately and he slept a long, deep and dreamless sleep.  
  
Many hours later when the sleeping draught wore off Spot's slumber became less peaceful again, although not hauted by nightmares. He still became restless and tense, which was his natural reaction to the reality of being a captive that took hold of him even in his sleep.  
  
That sleep, however, did not last long.  
  
Spot woke up but did not open his eyes right away. Was that music nearby? No, that had to be be his imagination that was taunting him...He opened his eyes.  
  
There was that guy again; whatwashisname, Gus. He was playing a fiddle, and quite well, too. Maybe the pirate ship had been a nightmare? No, he was chained to a bed; that was no dream but dreadful reality.  
  
Letting his rising anger take a firm grip on him he blinked away a few tears. Tears! He had not cried in years. This ship had in store everything that he had hoped never to do or see again. It shortened his temper. "Could you stop that noise?" he said rather heatedly to Gus.  
  
Gus almost snagged a string, so startled was he when Martin, who had been deeply asleep only moments before, suddenly told him to stop playing. He stood up from the desk he had been leaning against, and of course also stopped playing the wonderful fiddle. Music again! He had been so thrilled to play!  
  
But maybe Martin didn't cotton much to music. And then he saw the shine of the eyes, and the streaks of a few tears on the lad's face. He understood then. Music could make anyone cry, just not everyone liked to cry. Especially with an audience.  
  
Gus smiled in kind understanding. "Sure, Martin. I'll stop. Yer prob'ly still tired, Cap'n said you had a bit of fever in the night."  
  
He went over to the other side of the cabin and bent down to put his fiddle in the case now hanging from a peg on the innermost of the two poles now holding up two hammocks, each with a small pillow and warm blanket. "The other one is yours, Cap'n says, fer when you aren't so scared no more. I get the other, so I figured you might want top bunk cuz it has the porthole, so I'll take lower. Unless you 'd rather have the lower one; it don't matter to me."  
  
"Who says I am scared?" Martin snapped, but it seemed not loud enough to make Gus stop talking. Then, watching and listening, something made him start to think. Hammock? Two hammocks? Now he was confused. His eyes followed the young man in front of him. "You are going to stay in here? Willingly?"  
  
Gus looked surprised. "Oh, we all saw how you was when..." He stopped. Maybe it was not the best thing to be bringing up. But then he realized it was something that--if it had to be brought up--it might best be done by someone near Martin's own age. "We all saw you was scared by the ship and all, or Cap'n would never have used no chains, and only fear causes the fight you put up there. So, yeah, you pretty much said you was scared. But 's okay, since bad pirates are t' be scared of."  
  
Gus waited for a reaction of some kind, and he got it. Martin turned away from him and looked to the other side of the cabin. So Gus walked back over to that side. "But, see, this ship aint bad, so you don't have t' be scared here. Cap'n is nice, food is good, crew does their jobs and don't bother nobody with...stuff that scares a body. And you being the Cap'n's nephew, well, he th—"  
  
At 'Cap'n's nephew' Spot suddenly turned from angry and ignoring to angry and appalled. "The Captain's WHAT?" he shouted and would have jumped out of the bed - those chains, for a moment he had almost forgotten about them, and they held him back. And after a second when the first rush of shock had worn off, he scoffed openly. "Don't tell me you're really dumb enough to believe that nonsense. I don't have an uncle and I bet he doesn't have a nephew. Don't you see? He's lying. To you, to me, to everyone. Believe what you want, but I don't trust him."  
  
Gus froze and stayed motionless for a minute while his mind did some quick thinking. He found that he was not surprised at all that Martin denied being the Captain's nephew. And it would not bother him if he was or was not, because Captain Marcus was a good man, not out to harm this lad. He thought about what he had seen, heard, and experienced since coming on board, and what his gut told him.  
  
Yet, when he relaxed a bit, he did not relax fully. "Martin, yer a scared kid who aint never had no reason to trust nobody, and that's plain to see from the crow's nest and you being down three decks. You don't see the truth, cuz you don't want to, or maybe you just can't. But if the Cap'n lied, do you think it might be a bit fair to ask him why? Cuz from what I've seen an' heared aboard, if he's lyin', tis fer a good reason not meant to hurt, but to help." He got up and headed for the door. "I'm gittin' the Cap'n, right now."  
  
Spot had talked himself into a fury again and the fact that this Gus called him 'kid' made it even worse. Good advice, thank you. At the moment he was even angry enough not to feel any fright at the prospect of the Captain coming. "Yes, sure," he called after Gus. "And with him being so nice you might ask him to bring the keys for these chains."  
  
Gus turned and said, crisply for him, "He don't need to bring them. They be right here, in the desk drawer. But I'd be advising the Cap'n to ferget the keys part cuz yer dangerous, to yerself, to me, to the Cap'n, and to the crew." He turned and left the cabin, and hurried off to find the Cap'n.  
  
He found him betweendecks, checking inventory on the ship's stores. He felt bad instantly. The Cap'n looked real tired, and a bit down. "Yer nephew's awake, Sir, an' he aint in no good mood. Thought you should know. Do you want me to come back with you? I kin do that, or not."  
  
Captain Marcus turned from what he was doing and sighed. He told the crewmen to keep taking inventory and he'd check the figures later. Then he took Gus' arm lightly. "Come. Tell me what happened."  
  
On the way back to the cabin, Gus explained. "That fella's got a mouth, an' a temper. He's powerful angry inside, Cap'n. An' I knows you got a good reason fer callin' him yer nephew even if he aint, so don't worry, I won't say nuthin' to the crew."  
  
Marcus, feeling pale and a little sick, nodded. "Thanks, Gus. I'll take it from here, and maybe you could ask the cook to make some more food. Uh, something that won't make too big a mess if he tosses it across the cabin?"  
  
Gus beamed. "Right away, Cap'n. I'll ask Angus to make you something tidy t' eat." And he headed off.  
  
Marcus squared his shoulders and quickly went into his cabin. He waited for Martin to speak.  
  
*****  
  
The moment he was alone, Spot instantly regretted losing his temper. Somehow he had not felt it necessary to hold back in front of this Gus, but now he started thinking. The guy would go straight to the Captain now. And what then? Then he would pay for his temper.  
  
He was staring at the door when it opened again, and sure enough Captain Marcus came in, looking at him. Spot looked back but did not say a word for a long time. But neither did the Captain. A standoff, then, and Spot knew how those ended. He swallowed. 'Ask,' Gus had said. Should he risk it? No, it was better to be more careful. He swallowed again and broke the standoff. "Good morning."  
  
Marcus took a deep breath and ran a hand through his own hair, further disheveling it. He simply did not feel up to fighting again with Martin. He leaned against the door, and his lack of sleep the previous night made his eyes seem dark and his features sad. He said, softly, "I gather it isn't, really. Want to talk about it?"  
  
Silence hung between them again for a few more seconds until Spot had mustered enough courage. He nodded. "I have a question."  
  
Marcus took another deep breath, and let it out sadly. "Ask without fear. I'm not going to hurt you, Martin."  
  
Spot briefly looked at the chains, but held back any comment about just how much he believed that. He had to ask quickly, before his courage left him. The answer would certainly not be worth any punishment that he might get, but Gus' words had made him wonder a bit. He needed answers to put the picture back together. He was as confused as he was angry and scared. So he risked it. "Why did you lie?" Then he looked at the Captain, half expectant, half fearful, like a rabbit looking at the fox, wanting to run, but unable.  
  
Marcus had known that would be the question. He slowly walked over to the porthole, and stared out, watching an easy sea and feeling the ship moving smoothly through the water. He said to the sea and distant, wispy clouds, "You mean why did I tell everyone you are my nephew?" He turned around and looked at Martin. "So they wouldn't think you were being used. If you were just a stranger, they might think you were my 'boy', and we have rules on this ship against that kind of thing. I've guessed your past, and knew I could not leave you below, like a prisoner, and you aren't ever going to be comfortable bunking with the crew, and I needed you to be somewhere safe, where you could..."  
  
Marcus' answer trailed off, into silence. He looked away from Martin, whose eyes had become even more wide and fearful as he spoke, and went to the desk. He sat down heavily and buried his head in his hands. "What's the use? You ask me a question to get an answer, but when you hear it, you don't believe a word of it. Before I say even a word, I see the disbelief. I can't seem to reach you. If I beat you or...if I did any of the things you've endured in the past, you'd be only too happy to believe it. But when I treat you with kindness, you distrust and fear me. I'm really trying here, Martin. But I know I'm just banging my head against a bulkhead."  
  
His voice was barely audible when he said, "I was only thinking to keep you safe and give you a place to sleep."  
  
"I was perfectly safe where I was," Spot said before he could stop himself. The anger was rising again, drowning out the fear. His hands had balled into fists and he closed his eyes until he felt some of the wave of anger subside again. He relaxed somewhat but the fists did not open. He could not go on like this, not knowing what was going to happen. If this was a game that they were playing with him, he had to end it, soon. Uncertainty was the worst.  
  
"Prove it," he said in a voice that was smaller than he had expected. And he forced his voice to become stronger in the next sentence, although he still could not control the trembling. "Take me out of here. There are storage holds. I would be safe enough in one of them."  
  
Marcus looked up into the green eyes, so young and afraid and earnest. His first instinct was that he could not do that, put Martin in one of the holds. But then he just nodded. If somehow this would prove he meant no harm, and had some integrity, and most importantly would make Martin feel safer, he would do it.  
  
He stood. "Okay." He went over to the pillars and first unfastened the hammock he had only just made for Martin. There was one hold big enough to hang it in. Carrying the hammock, pillow, and blanket, he grabbed up the extra shirt he had set aside for Martin, and only then went to get the keys. He methodically unlocked all the chains, and tossed them into the corner, then put the keys back in the drawer of the desk. He picked up another key, to the lock on the particular hold door. He stuffed it into the blanket and hammock folds. "It's the only key, so don't lose it. You can come and go as you please. Follow me."  
  
He shifted the large bundle he was carrying and opened the cabin door.  
  
Spot did not move. He was stunned. The simple 'okay' had been the first surprise, but one that he could handle, but then, to be freed of all the chains was almost a shock. He had expected to be brought down to the holds the same way he had been brought up. For a moment his eyes flickered to the door. Maybe he could make a run for it...  
  
Spot started a sprint, but stopped after only three steps. No, it was a short-sighted instinct, as he had learned very early on. They were in the middle of the ocean. There was nowhere to go. It was him against a crew of he did not know how many. He stood no chance.  
  
So he stood in the middle of the cabin, eyes closed and breathing as if he had actually done the full sprint. Maybe this was also a part of the game? After several seconds he opened his eyes again and followed slowly.  
  
But there was something else that he had to know! "May I ask another question?"  
  
Marcus had watched everything with dulled eyes and no reaction except to feel a little sick at what he saw as his complete failure. When Martin spoke, he turned toward him and nodded. "Sure. Ask."  
  
Spot kept a certain distance from Marcus, just to be safe. He would not be able to suddenly grab him. It was instinct. "If not for..." He glanced at the bed, then away. Now his courage left him and he finished the question as if he was talking to himself. "Why am I here?"  
  
Marcus was not sure what the question meant. Why was Martin on the ship? Why was he in the Captain's cabin? That was what it sounded like. But, no, it could not be that one; he had answered that one already. It must be the first question.  
  
Marcus looked at the ground. "Because a damn fool of a ship's captain made a mistake and picked you as a possible crewman while he should have left you back in Sarentre, where you felt safe, even if sooner or later your trick of stealing from pirates would have gotten you killed, or worse. But up until the moment you picked the wrong pirate to pilfer from, you would have felt safe. And I took that away from you."  
  
He sighed again. "One minute." Still holding the unwieldy bundle, he went over to the cabinet and opened the doors. He picked up the Spanish sword he had stolen from Martin's teacher.  
  
"Here," he said, somehow holding it out in its scabbard. "This is yours. Soon as I can arrange it, I will tell the crew to change course back to Sarentre. I'll take you home. You have my word."  
  
There was a flicker in his eyes when Spot saw the sword, and suddenly movements that before had been either slow or panicked became very exact and quick as lightning. His hand shot forward to draw the sword and bring it around in a low arc until it stopped a few inches from Marcus' throat and hovered there for several seconds during which he looked the Captain the eye. Then, suddenly the blade dropped sideways.  
  
Now Martin held the sword up so it could easily be seen, one hand on the hilt, one at the end of the blade. The fine work of both the hilt and blade were very easily visible, but he did not see them. His eyes were unfocused as his hand closed around the blade, cutting the skin. "It is just a port," he said, opening his hand and looking at the blood as if surprised.  
  
"Damnation," swore Marcus, who for a few seconds had thought Martin would kill him and berated himself for being stupid enough to hand over the sword when he knew well enough that the lad was dangerous. But now he dropped everything he was holding, except the shirt. He tore off one sleeve, grabbed Martin's hand and began wrapping the cuts, holding his wrist to stem the bleeding. He ignored the fact that Martin still held the sword until he had the hand wrapped, and was pressuring it. Then he knocked the sword to the deck and pulled Martin with him to the door while he kept pressure on the cuts. He yelled for the physician, then pushed Martin backwards until he was sitting on the chair.  
  
His voice was thick with worry. "Wounds turn septic on a ship. We have to treat this fast. Why, lad? Why did you do that? Cut my throat, I understand you wanting to do that. But why hurt yourself?"  
  
The fact that Spot did not fight Marcus when he not only touched him but also pushed him around showed how little his mind was in the present. The look of surprise stayed on his face until suddenly he seemed to wake up.  
  
He instantly pulled back the injured hand and instinctively started to back up, but the chair stopped him. Why? He didn't know and he said so.  
  
"Does it matter? It is my hand."  
  
Marcus wanted almost to weep, and yell, and shake Martin, but he did none of them. Instead, he stared at Martin. "I do not understand you at all. I want to! Help me to understand you!"  
  
He stared down at the sword briefly, and then back at Martin's face. He was kneeling now in front of him, holding that bandaged hand tightly, and almost choking on his emotions. "You could have killed me there. You wanted to, for a moment I thought you would do it. And then you did not--and I do not understand why you would hurt yourself, and not me! You hate me!"  
  
"I have seen hate," Spot said simply but did not explain further what that remark meant. His eyes flicked towards the sword for a moment. He shook his head, violently, almost as if he was refusing to listen, but he did listen. This time, with less hurry and more coordination he managed to push the chair backwards and get up.  
  
He walked a few steps over towards one of the portholes - in the direction away from the bed. He tried, but for the first time since he left the Eclipse he could not muster enough anger to overpower his emotions. He tried to hate Marcus for that, but it was not enough. He was still shivering.  
  
Abruptly he turned and looked him in the eye. "Maybe it is better if you don't know me. But I will tell you this: I am ready to kill anyone who touches me. And believe me, I will find a way, no matter what."  
  
There was no doubt that he meant what he said.  
  
Marcus sat back on his heels, and looked at Martin's blood on his own hand and shirt. He felt defeated, and at that moment, he looked it too. "Martin, I sent for the doctor, and he will come. Your hand needs to be treated, lest it fester and--and you lose it. The doctor will have to touch your hand. But if you would rather risk infection, I will tell him to somehow-- Will you permit him to tell me how to treat it? I am no physician, but I have treated wounds before. Someone has to touch your hand, Martin. Just your hand."  
  
Spot nodded. He knew of the effects of wounds. He had seen it many times. "But only that." Then he looked down at his hand and ran a finger along one of the cuts. "Beautiful, isn't it? I can do it. My skin, my blood, my decision." And suddenly he smiled.  
  
Marcus felt all the color drain from his face, and he felt as if he were looking up into...what? A monster? He just stared. A minute ticked by, and he looked at the blood drip to his cabin deck. "Blood is never beautiful!" he suddenly shouted, and then covered his face in his hands. "Never! But I think I almost understand. You did it. No one did it to you. You were in control." Suddenly he was yelling again, and crying too. "And what did you do with your first act of control on this ship? You decided to hurt yourself!"  
  
He climbed to his feet and went to the cabin door and wrenched it open. "Get Doctor Javert up here NOW!" he yelled, and then turned and pointed to the chair. "Make your second decision a healthy one: sit down, and stop acting like a BOY and start acting like a MAN!"  
  
"Maybe I should." With two long steps Spot had crossed the space between himself and the Captain and had backhanded him, with force. He used his injured hand, which left a small trail of blood on the Captain's face. "That was for the kidnapping," he said, eyes blazing again, but with a slightly different fire than before. Then he sat down in the chair, so calm that it was almost scary compared to his earlier behavior.  
  
Marcus did not see the blow coming until it was upon him. He staggered, and almost fell to one knee. He knew that Martin knew it was punishable by death to strike the Captain of the ship. But somehow that did not matter to Marcus. He looked at Martin, sitting now so calmly in the chair. So he went to retrieve the sword. He put it on the desk next to the baffling young man, and then went down on his knees before him. He let his arms hang limp at his sides. "I had that coming," he said. He waited, as calmly as Martin sat in the chair.  
  
"Yes you had," Spot snapped, but then returned to his calm state, leaning back in the chair. He almost scared himself with it, but he felt in control and he liked it. But when his eyes turned towards the sword some of that confidence evaporated. He reached out and simply turned it on the table. Taking a grip on the blade - carefully this time - he held it out to Marcus, hilt first. "Here, do what you have to do. It is a Captain's sword."  
  
Marcus lifted his right hand and took the Spanish sword, with beauty etched into every part of the making of it. Yet the blood that stained the tip made it ugly. And he suspected more then than he could put into words-- instincts, intuitions flared within him. How had Martin come by a Captain's sword? Or was it a favored weapon of that baker back in Sarentre?  
  
Marcus realized he did not have the answers, and did not think it was the time to ask the question. He simply took the blade, and he repeated Martin's move exactly. He let his hand close around the sharp steel, felt the skin split, and the blood begin to well. Then he put the sword back on the desk and looked at his own left hand. "It is not my sword."  
  
Spot watched in astonishment and his eyes widened in horror. Never before had he seen anyone hurt himself. The confidence left him again to be replaced by confusion. "Why did you do that?" he breathed, but then put a hand on the sword again. Cold, strong metal, unfeeling. "I gave it to you. It is yours."  
  
He took that cloth the Captain had wrapped around his hand earlier and handed it over to him with with one hand. Then he ran a finger along the blade again, almost playfully. "But then, who knows to whom it belonged in the beginning? What would make this sword yours?"  
  
Marcus took the cloth and just held it. He reached for the shirt the sleeve had come from and ripped off the other one, and put it across Martin's lap. "Your hand is still bleeding." Then he wrapped the bloody cloth around his own palm, and clutched it with his arm bent up to his chest. He answered Martin's question. "I cannot own a sword that has drawn your blood."  
  
"Goddammit!" Martin cried, jumping to his feet again. He grabbed the sword and threw it so that the blade embedded itself into the far wall. His voice rose again. "My blood! As if these few drops are worth anything. This sword has seen much more. I saw it kill men, women, children! *I* killed with it. It should have drawn my blood a long time ago and much more than this."  
  
As suddenly as it had started the outburst was over, its energy spent. The chair had fallen over, so he held on to the first thing available, which was the edge of the table. His hands closed around it so hard that his knuckles turned white and the blood was flowing out beneath his fingers. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.  
  
Marcus scrambled to his feet, his instinct at first to prepare to maneuver out of the way if Martin threw the sword at him, but instead it reverberated with the tang of finest steel against the wall where Martin's hammock had been only a few minutes before.  
  
He listened in silent astonishment as Martin finally pulled back a few of the layers behind which he hid. "It belonged to the captain who hurt you," he stated, not asked. "And you--" He moved to stand next to Martin, but only very lightly put his hand on the lad's bleeding hand. It was all he had permission to touch. "You did not kill anyone with this sword who did not deserve it, and I would bet my ship it was in self defense." Marcus pried up the fingers, and wrapped the bleeding hand. Then he simply stood there, offering the only support he felt Martin might allow: just being there. Inside, he wanted to offer more. But Martin was too close to the edge, his emotions, long imprisoned inside finally clawing their way out. He did not want to push him, just be there for him.  
  
Spot offered no resistance. There no energy left for that. In fact, he did not even have energy left for standing and his knees gave out. He was trying to take hold of anger again, anger at how this Captain had managed to break down his defences, anger at himself for letting him – anything that would help him get a grip of himself again. It was no use.  
  
He still had no tears, but they were not necessary to cry. He was shivering like a whole forest of leaves and about as receptive as a rock. "I didn't know what to do..."  
  
Marcus virtually caught Martin as he slid to kneel against his heels, shivering so hard his voice shook as he leaned against one leg of Marcus' desk. The captain happened to glance toward his open door then, for he had not closed it, and there was Gus, watching, his face awash with expressions Marcus had no words for at the moment. Behind him were several crewmembers, not even murmuring. How long had they been watching? Calton would be there, too... and he was, still a little to the side but looking like he was about to interfere and lock Martin into a hold like he had promised. Marcus quickly signaled him to stay out of this. His first mate did not nod his consent. Indeed, he looked very unhappy, but for now he did as his Captain wished. "I hope you know what you are doing." Then he turned and left, no doubt going to look after ship's duties.  
  
Marcus quickly righted the chair and lifted Martin into it and then went to the door. Gus had a doctor's black bag with him. He handed it to the Captain. Marcus looked at everyone and said, softly, "I am in no danger. The lad cut his hand and is in some shock. Where is Javert?"  
  
Gus answered, "Fella named Luther got hit wit' a bit o' loose riggin', near lost an eye. Doc's with him. But he sent stuff to help, said you'd know what to do."  
  
Marcus nodded. "I can treat his hand. Cut mine too, but that was just...an accident. Not bad. Don't worry."  
  
"Aye, Cap'n." And the other crewmen, some with doubtful or questioning expressions, echoed the "Aye."  
  
Marcus knew he would have a lot of explaining to do later, and it would be harder than last time. "I need to tend him." He sighed. "I know what this looks like, but it isn't that, you have the Captain's word. You know if I break my word, I can be lawfully marooned. Just...try not to think the worst until you have heard what this is about. I will meet with the crew later about this. Fair enough?" He looked at everyone, and after some more "Ayes", the crewmen drifted away.  
  
Marcus smiled a warn smile at Gus, the only one who remained. "Thanks for the medicines. Now we need that food pretty soon." He caught Gus' arm. It was important that this lad believed him. "Do you believe me, Gus?"  
  
Gus glanced briefly at Martin, then at Marcus. "About most of it, I do, no reservations." But he glanced then at Marcus' bloody hand. "Not sure about that part, or him not hurtin' you. But I'll give you both the benefit of the doubt, Cap'n. I'll get that food for you and your...and Martin." And Gus was gone.  
  
Marcus sighed and turned back to Martin. At least Gus did not think he was hurting Martin. He put the bag on the desk, and went down on one knee again. "All you need do is let me help you. No ulterior motives, no wanting to trick or trap you. Just wanting to help. Simple as that, and as complicated."  
  
He opened the bag and got out things he would need.  
  
Spot did not see the crew, not really, not consciously, which was maybe a good thing, for it would have been even more distressing to him. But the few minutes that Marcus spent talking to them were enough for him to calm down somewhat. He was no longer crying; he had locked himself deep inside himself by the time Marcus started to tend his hand. His eyes were unfocused and he looked at the wooden deck and nothing else.  
  
Marcus warned Martin that the disinfectant would hurt, but there was no response, so he kept on working on the cuts, cleaning and then bandaging them. He watched those downcast eyes for any response, fearing what would happen when those green eyes again took in their surroundings. Marcus has never treated this kind of...he did not know what to call it.  
  
He did know, however, that Martin was more wounded than he knew how to cope with. The best thing he could do for the lad was to take him back to Sarentre, where at least he had his teacher. Maybe that would help him. He decided he would have a talk with...Martin had called him Christopher. He would have a talk with Christopher when he returned to Sarentre with Martin. At least the baker could see to it that the young man was educated. Marcus has the funds to pay for it, and it could be done in secret. Martin need never know who funded his education.  
  
Finally, he began clumsily bandaging his own hand, and hissed when the disinfectant ran over the cuts.  
  
After not even flinching during the treatment of his own hand, Spot suddenly looked up when he heard a hiss nearby. His eyes focused again. For a moment he hesitated, blinking, and then lay his hand on the Captain's wrist and took the bandage from him. "You will have trouble doing that alone." His voice was calm again, without emotion. He himself did not even know why he did what he did except that it was his own free will and decision.  
  
To say that Marcus was startled was an understatement. He let go of the bandage and looked at Martin. He had a feeling he should be calm and not make too much of the action, even though inside he wanted to sing for joy. Maybe I am reaching him after all. But he only nodded and said, "Thank you, Martin."  
  
"Shut up," Spot said, but without much force, more in the tone of voice that others would have used for you're welcome. He did not even look up from the hand. He simply wrapped it with quick, practiced movements. When he had finished, he got up, took the sword and put it in a corner. Then he walked to the door.  
  
Marcus felt his inner hope die a quick, surprisingly painful death. The light in his eyes dimmed and flickered out, and his shoulders seemed to slump. He put what was left of the roll of bandage back in the doctor's bag, with the disinfectant. He simply watched Martin. He did not speak.  
  
Spot opened the door, ready to leave the cabin - and found himself faced by a short, stooped man who was just about to come in. They both effectively blocked each other's way. For Spot it meant that the way out was blocked. There was a spark in his eyes and he tensed again. After a second of looking at the man he turned, taking a step back again.  
  
Marcus nodded to the physician. "Javert. This is Martin. Martin, this is the doctor, Javert. We are all bandaged, as you can see," he said in a neutral voice, keeping an eye on Martin. "Tell me about Luther. Were you able to save his eye?" Javert took his bag and told Marcus what he needed to tell him. "Yes, Captain. But it will take time for his eye to heal, and in the meantime, he should not go up into the rigging. He might get vertigo and fall." He asked with his eyes if he should say anything to or about Martin, and Marcus quickly shook his head.  
  
As soon as the doctor left with his bag, Marcus turned to Martin. "I do not need your permission to speak. I am Captain here. Do not lose your manners again, boy." There was challenge in Marcus' voice, for he found he was quite angry. He thought, too, that his own anger and tone of voice would give Martin back some of what he seemed to need: the belief that he was being vilely mistreated.  
  
Spot, who, after the man had brushed past him, had pointedly looked out the porthole, turned around and glared at Marcus. He had picked up the slight change in Marcus' voice. I am Captain here. Now, that was more what he was used to. A challenge, maybe a threat. As a matter of fact, Spot welcomed it. He took it and used it as a base to rebuild his usual defense. His eyes flashed again. "I am sorry, Captain," he said in a voice that said he was everything but sorry. "Manners are a luxury that rarely crossed my way."  
  
"Until you came aboard my ship." Marcus pointed at the hammock, pillow, and blanket on the deck of his cabin. "You still want your own space? Pick that up, and I will lead you to your hold."  
  
Spot looked from Marcus to the door, down at the hammock and back to Marcus. He made a visible effort to relax and failed miserably. Then, never taking his eyes off the Captain, he picked them up with slow, fluent movements, almost cat-like.  
  
As Martin gathered up everything, Marcus swooped like a hawk down onto the key to the hold. He grabbed it and put it in his pocket.  
  
When he saw that move, the stored energy in Spot's tense body exploded and he jumped back, but when the Captain didn't move after him he managed to get a hold of himself again, although barely.  
  
Marcus led him from the cabin without a word. He said nothing at all to the lad, for anything he said would come out wrong. Spot wanted to be scared. He seemed to need it for his world to work right. Fine. Marcus could scare the young man just by saying nothing.  
  
Spot followed slowly again, berating himself for not having kept control. It would not happen again, he promised himself. This situation did not look bad at the moment, and if he could just stay calm, he might be able to keep it that way.  
  
They crossed the main deck, and descended one of the far ladders to the 'tween deck, and then down onto the orlop.  
  
Marcus stopped once, to grab up a lantern. It was low on oil, so he told Martin to not move while he went to fill its reservoir.  
  
He did not have to move far for the oil, so out of the corner of his eye he saw that Martin seemed to have even stopped breathing. So he was that frightened. Good. His world was understandable again. Marcus came back with the lantern and continued on. Along the way he found a small bundle of matches, and brought them too. They went down one more deck, to the hull level. Since Martin wanted to be away from the crew, he would grant his wish. He found the hold used to store valuable metals, but it was currently empty. The space was perhaps eight feet wide and deep, almost six feet high, with a wall and door of woven metal. He opened the lock. "Inside."  
  
Now, outside the hold Spot seemed to lose a bit of his resolve again. The hold looked dark and forbidding, and he had to concentrate on his breathing, but it betrayed his nervousness anyway. He was telling himself over and over again that this was what he had asked for. It would not be turned around against him...or would it? Taking his eyes off the door he looked at the Captain again, trying to see what that change in tone meant. But he had promised himself to stay in control and so he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and – did not move at all. He tried again, this time letting go of his attempted control over his breath, which instantly became ragged, and forcing all his will into his legs ... with two steps that felt like his legs were made of lead he went inside.  
  
While Martin was standing there like a stiff statue, and Marcus was growing impatient. Why not let it show? He was supposed to be mean. A little impatience would match that expectation perfectly. "What is it now? Are you afraid of the dark?" He lit the lantern, and pushed past Martin into the hold.  
  
"No," Spot said, and it could have been an answer to Marcus' question. He was not afraid of the dark at all; he had spent enough time in dark holds to develop almost a night vision. In fact, he preferred the dark. It was like a blanket to him, hiding him from unfriendly eyes. But the word could also mean something else, for the moment the Captain brushed past him he dropped what he was holding, flung himself around and ran.  
  
He did not take the way they had come, but went deeper into the ship, but that was not the reason why this was a short run. Just like before in the cabin, after the initial impulse, reason took over and told him that running was a bad idea. In this case he had made it a short distance, enough that little light reached here. There he leaned against a stack of crates, like someone resting after a long run. "Dammit!" he almost shouted, before retracing his steps again, this time swift but not running, up towards the main deck.  
  
Marcus swore silently, and very easily followed Martin's dash away from the hold. He was back to being a panicked colt. Now Marcus used his own stealth, and followed. He heard the loud "Dammit!", and he caught up with Martin just as he had almost gained the main deck.  
  
"Do NOT interfere," he ordered all crewmen who had stopped to stare, openmouthed. With no thought to the bruises he would get, he grabbed Martin, pinning his arms, and lifted and carried him back to the hold, kicking, scratching, and biting the whole way. How he managed to keep a hold on him was a miracle, for the boy was fast, agile and very angry. In fact, more than once they both fell, with Marcus only managing to keep the upper hand because he was concentrating more than Martin and made full use of his greater strength weight. By the time they reached the hold, Marcus had many bruises, bleeding bites, and a terrible pain in his right side. But he had not let loose of the lad, and if Martin had a few new bruises, he had surely more than earned them.  
  
Once at the hold, Marcus shoved the lad inside and locked the door, throwing the key in after him. "It's the only key!" he yelled, breathing heavily. "Damn!" His ribs ached fiercely, and a lot of other places did, too. He was furious. "I could kill you for that, but I will not, and you can make up your own illogical reason why not. Now I am going topside to plot a course back to Sarentre. We should be there in three days, weather holding. Damnation, boy; I did what I could to try to help, but you fought me every step of the way. I GIVE UP! You are an utterly hopeless case."  
  
The fighting had felt good, too good to be healthy, but Spot did not know that. He had started to fight far too late in his life and he had no intention of stopping now. And anger was a powerful weapon. After he had regained his balance from being shoved inside the hold he instantly turned and went back for the door, which by now was locked of course. "And what do you think I should have done? What's the proper conduct for kidnapees?" he hissed.  
  
He bent down to pick up the key and with a little fumbling because of overwrought emotion opened the door again. Pushing it open with much more force then necessary, then throwing the key into a corner with even more force, he took a step toward Marcus. Right then he looked almost dangerous with his eyes gleaming in anger. "Why can't you just leave me alone? Go!"  
  
Marcus did not even back up. He stood his ground in a sudden turnaround of patience taken from a storehouse he had thought recently—and completely—drained. He knew he must hold his ground. "No."  
  
Spot felt like he had just run against the wall of said storehouse. His stance and energy did not change. However, they were put on hold for the duration of one short question. "Why not?"  
  
Very softly, Marcus said, "Because it is my ship, and I made a mistake, and I intend to do right by you. That is why."  
  
The lethal look vanished from his eyes, but still Spot's body was ready for fight. Two instincts inside of him were warring with each other and at the moment the calmer one won. The struggle was visible in a slight tremble of his clenched fists. "The right thing now would be to just leave me alone," he said slowly, putting special emphasis on the last four words and there was a slight rise in his voice at the end of the sentence, indicating that the tiny thread of control that kept his nervous energy down could break any second.  
  
Marcus stared unblinking into Martin's green eyes, and met the anger head on. "On this ship, I am the one who gives orders. Not you. I will go when I want to, and not before. And I have something to say to you. I had to allow you to believe I was what you expect me to be—which is not what I am—for YOUR WORLD to make sense again." He tried to breathe with the pain in his side, but he could not take a deep enough breath. So he muttered, "You need to grow up." He held Martin's eyes for a few more silent seconds. Then he turned on his heel and walked away without another word or glance back.  
  
Spot looked after the Captain, still strung like a bow, until he had disappeared. And even then it took nearly five minutes for the tension to leave him. With the anger gone the energy disappeared also and he slowly sank to the floor, not caring whether it was comfortable or not or whether his bruises hurt or not. He was far too exhausted to care. What counted was that he was alone, and the door stood open.  
  
tbc... 


	6. Losses

**Chapter 6: Losses**

For a long time Spot just lay there, and slowly his breathing became more and more calm, until in the end the minutes went by and it seemed like he was hardly alive. Finally he pushed himself up, leaning against the metal wall for a moment, completely ignoring the blankets and hammock he fixed his eyes on the key that was now lying in the dark corner where he had tossed it. He picked it up. "_It is the only key."_ the Captain had said. "_Don't lose it."_  
_Lose it!  
_His hand closed so tightly around it that his knuckles turned white and he slowly but purposefully made his way to the deck. There he didn't look at anyone, didn't stop or react to anything, until he stood right at the bow, looking down at the foaming water that was parting in front of the ship.

_Come on boy, what are you waiting for? Just throw it._

_  
_The hand with the key opened, but all he did was look down at it. He was vaguely aware of the symbolism of this key, at least the symbolism for him. When it was gone, no one would be able to lock him into that hold anymore .. On the other hand, as long as he had it he had the power to lock them out, so that no one would be able to rach him, touch him..  
In the end he let go of the key, but it didn't disappear into the ocean. When it hit the deck with the sound of metal on wood Spot spun around, scooped it up and shoved it into his pocket. Then he returned to staring out across the water with his hands clutching the railing, the wind trousling his hair into an even greater mess.

Marcus had managed to stay calm and upright until he was out of Martin's sight, and a little further for pride, but then he found some bundles to almost collapse against. Damnation, that boy had broken at least one of his ribs, and he could hardly breathe! Not to mention the bites, scratches, scrapes, and general bruising. _Avoid everyone._ Marcus knew he was bleeding, from several places, and the crew would go after Martin unless he told them not to. But he could not clean up before he showed himself. That was going to be tricky.

Marcus finally moved on, went up a deck, then headed for the aft of the ship, to come up nearer his cabin. Twice he had to stop just to catch his breathe. If I did not understand you, Martin, I would throttle you myself. He finally found the steps up, and hoped not many crewmen were around.

He slipped on the steps and came down hard on one already bruised knee. He swore under his breath, and pushed himself upright, favoring his damaged ribs.

_Carlton had been standing a little to the side, relaxed for the moment. There was little to do. Everything was moving smoothly now that he had the crew back to work after the Captain had disappeared belowdecks. Usually he did not question Marcus' actions, but during the last two days there had been more happening than the deep trust of a First Mate in his Captain could take in silence. He was going to talk to him, soon._

_The soon turned to now when he finally saw him appear from below. Carlton took three long steps, frowning darkly. Just as Marcus managed to get up again he caught him around the shoulders and hoisted him up, not entirely gently. "We have to talk," he said in the voice that usually told crewmembers not to fuss around, and inconspicuously herded him towards the Captain's cabin.__  
_  
Marcus knew that 'no nonsense' voice, and he knew Carlton. But if anyone had to find him, it was best it was his First Mate, not some random crewman. "Easy on the shoulder, please. I do not know what he did to it, but it hurts." He allowed himself to be herded into his cabin, where he sank down on the chair. "I need to clean up, and talk to the crew, and calm down enough not to kill him myself." He knew they both knew who the "him" was.

_Carlton was standing right next to the chair and observed the damage. He was no doctor, but he had seen enough in his life to know that the way Marcus moved - or avoided moving - indicated some injury beyond the visible bruises. "I am not sure if I am pleased to hear that he is not already dead," he said, starting to work his friend and Captain out of his shirt, generally ignoring the indicated shoulder. "I hope you have him locked up well."__  
_  
Marcus groaned, and hunched way over his right side. "Broken ribs," he grunted. "Carlton, I have not locked him up at all. I gave him the key to the hold. He probably has the door locked tight, and..." Marcus managed to extricate his hand, which got tangled in the cuff of his shirt. He did not even think about his scars around Carlton. "I did everything I could for Martin. I tried my best. I give up. I promised him we would get him back to Sarentre. I cannot reach him. He is as bruised in his soul as I am on my body. What is the assessment?"

_Carlton studied Marcus, touching one bruise after the other to find out if there was more injury than visible. He did it with the care of a friend who thought that Martin had earned at least part of what he got. "You are a mess," he said simply, in brutal honesty. "If he is half as stubborn as you, then it is small wonder you cannot reach him. What was driving you anyway? Anyone else would have been locked up yesterday and left in the hold until we get near land again. I have stayed out of it because I thought you knew what you were doing, but it seems that maybe I should have intervened much earlier. Now, if you do not mind I will get the doc and then find that wild boar and put him where he cannot do any more damage--"__  
_  
Marcus clutched at Carlton's arm. "No! No, you must not. I made a promise to him that he would be left alone. He just needs to be left alone." Marcus sighed, and spoke softly. "I remembered how Robert helped me. I wanted to help Martin. He reminded me of myself. I cannot turn my back on him, Carlton. You should be able to understand that. I will not have him harmed. He has suffered enough. Let us take him home. Then we can...get back to normal." There was a pause, while Marcus concentrated on breathing. "He is not a bad one. He is only scared."

_Carlton sat down on the table and looked down at his Captain, still serious, although his face now showed understanding among the worries. "Whether bad or scared, he is dangerous. There is no telling how the crew will react to him. There has been too much trouble already, and no way you can keep this..." he softly touched one of the broken ribs, just enough to remind Markus that they were there. "..from the crew. Javert can stay quiet, but simply put, this is too much."__  
_  
_Sighing he got up to dig out a towel and soap so Marcus could start cleaning up. While doing that he observed the chains in the corner and the rest around the bed, and once again shook his head. "Listen Marcus, I do not say you cannot do it. You can try to tame that boy, you can bring him home if you want. But we must not let it affect the ship. We have a responsibility to the crew."__  
_  
Marcus winced when the rib was touched, but he also sighed, and began to use soap and water. "Carlton. He will stay away from everyone on board. That is all Martin wants, to be left alone. Do not lock him up. As a favor to me. If there is another incident, do what must be done. But for now--I will stay out of sight as much as I can until things are less colourful." Marcus sighed. "Call Gus to get Javert. I cannot fix this alone. I have made a mess of this. I should have known. I am no Robert."

_Carlton did not move, not yet at least. "Maybe this boy is just no Marcus," he said, in a very friendly and understanding voice. He had made his point and he had been listened to. So now it was time to for the First Mate to step back and let the friend do his work.__  
__"There are few like you about, and some just are not strong enough to be saved." He started to pat Marcus on the shoulder and held back just in time before he touched the bruise. "As a favor to you I will stay away from the boy, for now. But I will watch." Then he sighed and went to the door to call for that new guy, Gus. At least the stop in Sarentre had brought them more than just problems. This one seemed good enough. As soon as Gus hurried to the Captain's door, Carlton told him, "Go and get Doctor Javert, and try to do it quietly."__  
_  
Marcus listened, and when Carlton stepped back in, he smiled up at him. "You...are a good friend. And the best First Officer. When we get back to Sarentre, would you like to come ashore with me and Martin? He will not trust the crew, but he might...he might not attack if we are both there. I think I may still need the help."

_Carlton, upon closing the door, had leaned against the wall next to it. Now he smiled a bright smile that lit up his features like a thousand candles. "Anything you want, Captain," he said, now much less grave and serious, and more in a jesting mood. He studied Marcus again, now cleaned up somewhat, although the reminders of the fight were still clearly visible. They would be colourful for quite a while. "You know, I never thought a whelp like that could take you."__  
_  
Marcus looked at Carlton with a laugh that caused him to wince. "You get to hold on to him next time he goes into his 'eel' thing. He is...amazing. He could teach us all how to escape kidnapping! I wish there was something we could teach him. Trust."

The smile vanished. Which was good timing, for Javert came then, and said virtually nothing through tight lips as he examined Marcus, then bound the three broken ribs and applied iodine and other medicines to bites and scrapes and scratches. "And how is the boy? Does he need medical attention?"

Marcus was trying to get used to the wrapping on his ribs. "No," he said, shortly, and looked away. "He wanted me to fight him. I refused." Marcus ignored the doctor's eloquent grunt. Shortly afterwards, he took the drink Javert gave him, and within minutes he sank forward, asleep.

_"As usual, you leave the work to me," Carlton said with a smile to his sleeping friend. He signaled Javert to wait for him outside and then hoisted Marcus up onto the bed. He made him as comfortable as he could before he pulled the covers over him. "You can only teach things that you know, my friend. Do you trust yourself?" Finally he shook his head at the madness of the situation and left._

_Outside he saw Javert watch what looked like the back of a statue at the bow of the ship. "No matter how he looks, do not go there. It is best if we ignore him altogether." That was all the explanation he was ready to give. Realizing that several of the crew gave the boy similar looks he quickly started to make sure they all were busy._

_  
_  
Marcus, asleep because of the drug, drifted eventually into nightmares. He felt hands holding him, and saw a shadowy face coming closer and closer to him with the hot poker. He kept pleading for them to not burn him, promising in utter panic to be faster, more obedient, better—anything! But they touched the poker to him, and he screamed even as he smelled the stench of his own burning flesh. He screamed until he felt nothing, and his world was black.

Time was not of much importance to Spot. It passed, and as long as he lived and was free the passing did not matter much. Every moment was a new moment, and as long as it was good, life was good.

His gaze had stayed on the horizon for he did not know how long. As a child he had wondered what lay beyond it, and had dreamed of a wonderful, glittering world. But when he finally travelled beyond the horizon, he had found just the same world as before, just as cruel and even more dangerous.

Finally he grew tired. The pain in his side had not eased much, and he thought perhaps he should take a look at it. So he turned and chose the shortest way down that would at the same time keep him as far away from the crew as possible.

However, after only five steps he stopped, and for the first time looked directly at one of the crewmen. There was nothing special about him except one small thing. A gleam appeared in Spot's eyes and he changed direction to walk over to him in a cat-like movement. When he stopped in front of him his eyes were fixed on the object in the man's right hand. "That is mine," he said, strangely calm.

James was intent on his work of preparing the fish his lines had pulled in. Salt fish was fine, but men needed fresh now and then. He had caught several, and still had one line to pull up. He was cleaning the fish with the knife he had picked up in the alley in Sarentre...A shadow. Head, shoulders...That new kid. He could tell by the shadow of his spiky hair.

James sighed. He put the knife behind him and slapped the fish against Martin's chest. "Sure kid. You want it? You can have this one."

Spot flinched when the fish hit him, but he did not step back. In fact he made a movement as if to grab the man, which he only stopped in the last possible moment. The tension, however, was clearly visible in his body and face. "Give me the knife!" he demanded a little louder, and this time he did not sound quite as calm.

James stood up, and he was taller and bigger than Martin. He had the knife in his hand, holding it now in front of him, unthreateningly...or close to that. "How do you want it, Cap'n-Beater? Gut? Leg? Happy to oblige you, just tell me where. We do not like those who take advantage of Cap'n Marcus' generosity. You hurt him pretty bad. We want to hurt you pretty bad, but he told us not to. I figure on obeying my Cap'n, unless you push me too far." His voice made it clear he really hoped Martin pushed him too far.

Up in the Captain's cabin, Marcus was coming awake groggily to the sound of voices. James and…Martin? Oh no, what was going on? He rolled out of bed and hurried down to the deck, wondering idly why it seemed to pitch oddly. _Must be a storm coming, and we are picking up early swells._ His legs felt weak, his head strange. _No wonder. Martin's hysterics, and the doc's medicine. Enough to make anyone feel strange._ His bandaged left hand also felt sore and swollen, but he had no time for that now.

The gleam in Spot's eyes became even stronger and he started to breathe just a notch heavier. Fear and the urge to act held their balance for a moment. "Give it back." The balance shifted and Spot lunged. He grabbed the arm that held the knife and yanked it sideways.

James let out a yell just as Marcus arrived, with Gus not far behind, and most of the crew behind him. "Do not interfere!" shouted Marcus, and grabbed Martin's arm. "Let James go NOW!" He reached and took the knife from James. It was a big knife, and he did not want to hold it, but he did.

The First Mate, Carlton, skidded to a halt right next to the melee right when Marcus shouted his order. He was very much tempted to ignore it. And, just as he had expected, the boy did not seem too impressed with it either.

"Give it back!" the whelp repeated and spun to shake the Captain's hold of his arm. At the same time he lunged after the knife just as it was handed over. His voice now had the tremble of strong emotions, very close to panic again.

Marcus only had a partial grasp on the knife, and his hand was cut, making it slick to hold. But he did. "Everyone, stay back! Captain's orders!" He shouted it, and felt his side like a burn but had to ignore it. "James! Back off! I said back off!" It looked to him as if the entire complement of the ship was crowded around. "I said back off!"

Only a few stayed close, which was okay. But Marcus had manoeuvring room now. He finally had Martin cordoned off. He did not look at the knife, for he dared not take his eyes off Martin. "You say this is yours? How did James get it? I think I should lock this away in my cabin."

Spot stood with his legs apart, feet firmly planted on the floor, ready to fight. His hand was still outstretched to take the knife, but he was not so far gone as to charge blindly at Marcus, not yet. "No. You already have the sword. Give me my knife," he said, not realizing how much like a child he sounded.

Then he remembered the he had been asked a question. His mind made a quick connection and once again his stance changed into anger. "He took it. He was one of the two who were with you when you attacked me that night. You took me and he took the knife..." Suddenly he turned around and directed a pair of blazing eyes at James. "You people think you can just take everything, do you?" he shouted with a voice that vibrated with anger and some fear.

Marcus muttered disgustedly, "And he has already forgotten that he gave me the sword, insisted I take it after I tried to return it to him. How like your twisted mind to conveniently forget everything it wants to." Marcus lost his temper. He shouted at Martin, not caring that the whole crew was listening. "More accusations! Do they ever end? Why should we even listen to you? You never listen to us, and you only see what your twisted perceptions let you see. Your happy little fantasy world—the sick, unjust world, according to Martin! I have news for you, boy: you have hurt us far more than we ever hurt you! And OH the reason we have to hurt you! BUT HAVE WE TIED YOU TO THE MAST AND FLOGGED THE SKIN OFF YOUR BACK, AS YOU DAMN WELL DESERVE? YOU TELL ME!"

Marcus took a few breaths, for his side was like fire, and strangely his hand, and he was swaying on his feet. "Bastard! James could have left that knife behind...probably should have left that knife behind. Instead, you have a chance to get it back. And I saved you, dammit! You would have been killed the way you were stealing from real pirates in Sarentre. Oh, but I forgot that in your world, it is perfectly fine to hurt those you think are pirates. It does not even matter to you—I doubt you have ever given it a thought—that the pirates or whomever you pick on are NOT THE ONES WHO HURT YOU! They might be men hurting inside just as badly as you. Never thought about that one, did you? I know. Poor Martin, the only victim who matters, who accuses others freely of having no heart while his is ICE WITHIN HIM!"

He glared at Martin. "Whoever you think is a pirate is a good victim, eh? Steal from us, fight us, hurt us—and you do not even know us, though we have given you plenty to know. But you do not give a damn. No. Because people in your past treated you badly, did not care, now it is fine for you to treat everyone like that. 'Care about me; do not hurt me! But I do not give a damn about you and will hurt you as it pleases me.' That is what you have shown us, kid. You bastard! The abused becomes the willing abuser. To hell with you! HERE--TAKE YOUR DAMN KNIFE!" He thrust it out at Martin, hilt first, and his hand shook. "JUST TAKE IT! GET BELOW! AND IN SARENTRE, LEAVE MY SHIP, BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT WORTHY TO SERVE WITH THIS GOOD CREW. YOUR HEART IS BLACK. I WANT YOU OFF THIS SHIP." A wave of weakness passed through Marcus after his outburst, but he kept it to himself, so strong was his fury.

Spot spun around again, still blazing with anger, although it had turned more cold than the hot anger before. When Marcus shouted at him he sometimes flinched and looked like he was about to take a step backwards – but he didn't. At the end of the tirade he was trembling, although out of anger or fear or despair wasn't clear, for those three emotions flashed in his eyes in turns. "Better dead than with pirates." he hissed. Then he snatched the knife out of Marcus' hand and pushed through the small crowd towards the hatchway down.

Marcus mood changed. He blanched, and misunderstood. "NOOOOOOOOOOO!" he yelled, and raced after Martin, catching him before he reached the hatch. "NO!" He spun him around and grabbed his face. "Life is always better, because it means there is hope! You have to at least learn that!"

Spot blinked. He did not know where the thought came from, because it was a new one; One that would have offered an easy way out years earlier, if he had ever thought of it. In a way, it offered some comfort, because it opened a way of escape, although a desperate one. He relaxed a little, but grabbed the knife tighter with his hand. On his lips there was a hint of a smile, although the rest of his face and body language showed his peculiar mix of fear, anger and desperation.

"Why not? What..?" his thoughts were redirected. Would he have been able to do it if he had thought of it back then? Maybe not, but he could now. "This is something that cannot be taken from me."

Marcus understood what Martin meant, and he feared. He locked his shaking but strong hands over Martin's, and would not let him turn the knife. "You will take it from yourself over my dead body, and not on this ship. I will keep you in irons forever before I will let you use that knife on yourself. Give it to me. I mean it, Martin. I have men who will help me, and they will do what I tell them to do. Give me that knife. You will not hurt yourself with it."

Marcus yelled to the men at his back. "Circle! Someone get behind him, and have irons ready! Block all hatches and rails."

For once Spot did not struggle against Marcus' hold, but he would not relinquish the knife either. When the men started to take positions around, following Marcus' order, he tensed to the fullest again. His panic was rising. Irons…."No. Tell them to back off." After a moment of thought he added the one word that he had once learned was seldom effective. "Please."

"Let go of the knife," ordered Marcus, not willing to be fooled by this boy again. "I will call them off when you let go of the knife." In the meantime, he not only held the knife, he also effectively held Martin from doing anything with it.

Spot swallowed. A tremble ran through him, but in the end he did let go. He had been a fool to think that he would be able to take control of his life. It had been a nice dream, and again, for a short time it had looked like it might come true...until another ship came along. His gaze dropped to the deck and it looked like he was going to cry - if he had tears.

"Take it, keep it. Keep the sword and..." With as much force as necessary he freed one hand out of Marcus' grasp and pulled the key from his pocket, dropping it to the deck. "...keep this."

Marcus wasted no time in finally wrenching the knife away. He handed it off to anyone behind him, with the order to leave it in his cabin. "Give us space!" he now ordered everyone. "Put the irons away!" He knelt down on the deck and picked up the key. He changed his hold on Martin's other hand, so he simply held it. He struggled back to both feet, and slipped the key back into Martin's pocket.

"No. I gave it to you. And the sword is yours, and the knife, to be returned to you in Sarentre." He used his free hand to lift Martin's face so he had to look him in the eyes, and his voice was soft. "There will be no irons. I keep my word." He tried to smile. "Besides, you said 'please'. You see, sometimes, it works."

Spot's stance had not changed much. Outwardly he was just as tense as before, but it was an act. Deep down in him, barely visible in his eyes, was the feeling of utter defeat. His lips trembled and for a moment it seemed like he was going to say something. But in the end he simply took a step away from Marcus, so that he slipped out of his reach, turned and headed down.

Marcus was at a loss. He had been at a loss for days, since Martin had come aboard. Now he took one unsteady step forward, and paused, and then followed Martin.

But he felt a wave of dizziness hit him at the top of the hatch, and he lost his balance, tumbling with a startled cry down the steep steps to the deck below. He hit his head, and his ribs, his shoulder—everything—again, before landing in a heap in the narrow passage at the foot of the steps. He found himself staring up at a hazy square of light. It had to be the hatch. Was it the hatch? He was not sure. He tried to move, and discovered he could not. He lay there, struggling just to breathe.

Spot heard the cry behind him and at first nearly started into a sprint, but then he turned. He arrived at Marcus' side at the same time as Calton, who did not waste any time calling the Captain a name in private and then glaring at the boy. "You ..." Then he waved him away and gave up, for now. He would deal with him later, after Marcus had been taken care of. "Someone come down and help me," he called. "Get doctor Javert!" And to Marcus he added: "Please tell me you are going to stop this now. Can you move?"

To his surprise the boy knelt down next to him and opened Marcus collar, ran two fingers along his throat and then placed a hand on his brow. "What are you doing?"  
Martin did not answer.

Marcus kept trying to breathe. "I f-feel cold," he managed to say. "The Captain will burn me again. Robert? I have to get up...I-I need to hide." He was shivering so badly, he hurt so badly, he had to avoid more hurt. "Robert, help me hide? I can take the cold."

"Oh no..." Calton said. He was about to shoo the boy away when Martin said to Marcus, "You are hidden."

Marcus sighed and let his head loll back. "Hidden. Good. Blow out the candle. He will see the light…."

Now the First Mate looked puzzled, feeling like he was listening to a conversation in a language he did not understand. He was even more puzzled when the boy pointed at Marcus' feet and told him to help him move him to his cabin. What the hell was happening?

Just to pretend that he did have some control over the situation, he told James, who had come down to help, to get out of the way. The lad was a handful and then some—he was unpredictable as a storm, and just as dangerous. At least while he was here he could keep an eye on him. So Calton allowed Martin to carry the Captain up the narrow steps with him.

Marcus felt so cold...so cold. But it was better than being burned. "Why are you carrying me? You said we were hidden." It was not Robert. "No," he whimpered, and then yelled "NO!" as loud as he could. "Do not take me to Hawkwell!"

At the sound of that name Spot froze and nearly dropped Marcus to the deck, but he caught him again just in time so that the impact was a soft one. "What?" he whispered to the wind, and a moment later flung himself around and fled, down the steps so fast that he actually tripped, and finally bolted into the hold which he firmly locked behind him. Then he sank down, his hands gripping at the metal of the wall as he leaned against it.  
Almost too low to hear above the creaking of wood and his ragged breathing where the whispered words: "I hate you, I hate you…"

Gus was nearby. His emotions were boiling like a stew, and with about that many different feelings all jumbled together. First he wanted to strangle Martin, and then he wanted to...he was not sure, but if he was helping for a change, he could wait to strangle him...Garth had fetched Javert, who had arrived just as the Captain, not in his right mind after the fall, yelled that about someone named Hawkwell, and Martin almost dropped the Cap'n.

Gus had heard of a Captain Hawkwell, very mean and feared. From Martin's reaction, he had heard of him too. Maybe, maybe more than heard of him.

There were enough crew with the Captain, not to mention the doc and the First Mate. He waited just long enough to hear Doc Javert say something about the Cap'n burning with fever, that his hand was badly infected…and he was delirious—which explained him acting strangely. James and Calton moved the Cap'n the rest of the way to his cabin, and Gus decided to go talk to Martin.

Gus turned and went after him. He followed him to the hold, and sat down against the bulkhead and watched him, listened to him whisper. "Heard of a Cap'n by that name, a mean piece o' work, no doubt about that. I understand you for hating him. It explains a lot."

Spot heard Gus approach and heard him talk, but he did not listen to the words, or so it seemed at first. His whispers had stopped. He was shaking his head, not much, but steadily. "No you do not. You could not even start." For once his voice did not sound challenging or accusing, merely stating a fact. He was not even looking at Gus.

Gus leaned back against the bulkhead. After awhile, he nodded. "Yer probably right, Martin. But I know pain when I hear it and see it. And I hear it and see it now."

Again, silence settled in, only to be broken again by a few words spoken in a low, almost expressionless voice. "Then maybe you should go up and help him."

Gus showed little reaction, but for the first time in his life he wished he had a pipe to smoke, or something to do with his hands. "Cap'n is surrounded by people right now. Doc is there, and Calton. James, too, and a bunch o' the crew waiting to hear what happens...T'aint room for me at the moment, so I thought I would keep company with you."

Now Spot looked up. "Make yourself comfortable." Then he shifted a bit and leaned his back against the wall, concentrating on his breathing.

Gus did, as much as he was able. He kept glancing up the passageway. "I got a feeling the Cap'n was a bit out of his head when he said some of those things," he said eventually. "Truth is, I feel a bit worried about you and him. Both. Not sure who I worry for more."

"He has a fever. If he takes the rest he needs, he should be fine," Spot said, shifting again, trying to get find a position that was easier on his side, which was hurting more again. Oh yes, he had been planning to check on that. Well, not yet….

"Doc said Cap'n's hand is infected," said Gus after a pause. Then he sighed and changed the subject. "I helped the Cap'n make that hammock. Need any help setting her up?"

Spot looked over at the small heap of hammock and blanket that was still lying where they had been dropped. He shook his head. "No, I will manage." The next words took a little longer. "Thank you." Again, this silence...which Spot finally broke. "Aren't you scared?"

Gus had pulled his knees up till his chin could rest on his arms, which rested on his knees. He glanced at Martin. "Scared?" He wished for a pipe again. "Scared o' what?"

Martin finally turned his head to look at Gus, fully ready to remark what a stupid question that was. "Of…" But then he got to the point in his mind where he had expected the answer and found none. "...being here," he finished the sentence, several seconds later.

Gus decided he would take up whittling, for the truth was he did not care much for pipe smoke. But he also did not have a bit of wood for whittling at the moment. So he kept sitting there, with his arms folded on his knees and his chin resting on his arms.

"Of...being here, talking to you? No. Of being on this ship? No. This ship is different than others I been on. One was bad. Not as bad as they get, but bad. This one is...different. Nobody been mean t' me yet. Cook's a nice fella named Angus, he tells me stories. An' Cap'n says I can play the fiddle anytime I want, when I go off duty. I figure to play her fer Sundays, and mebbe after supper in the evenings. I was going to play her tonight, but with the Cap'n being sick and all, I guess I better wait."

Angus. Spot had not heard that name yet, and he filed it away fro later use. It was always good to remember names. And the mentioning of the cook reminded him that he was hungry. He would think of a solution to that problem later, after he had time to take a look at bruise or whatever it was that hurt... he shifted again, easing it a bit once more. Suddenly he wished it was Sunday.

"I am ..." Scared was the missing word, but he could not bring himself to admit it that openly.

After awhile, Gus let out a deep breath. "That is kinda why I am here right now. And I feel scared fer the Cap'n." Gus looked over at Martin, and noticed some of the little moves he was making. "Ya need someone to fetch the doc fer you? Do you got a pain somewhere? Wouldn't surprise me none."

"No," Spot said, far too quickly, and started a bit, which then was followed by a short wince, but he shook his head. "It will be all right. No need to fetch the doctor." A few seconds passed and then he added as an afterthought: "He is busy anyway. No need to bother him."

Gus swallowed, and then looked at Martin by turning his head sideways on his arms. "Martin? I don't know what you been through. I think I'm scared to know. I just know it hurt ya bad. Maybe...maybe sometimes I can come and fiddle down here, if you don't mind the company. I remember seeing you sometimes, in Sarentre. I don't much think in terms of making friends, since a person either does or don't become one. But I would prefer we were on good terms than bad. But if you want me to stay away, I won't bother you none." He sighed.

"No, it's..." Again, one of these things that he could not seem to be able to get past his lips. "I don't mind. I'm just not used to..." Suddenly his head snapped up as another thought hit him, seemingly out of nowhere. "The crew doesn't like me. It might be dangerous if you stay with me."

Gus smiled. First Martin showed concern for the Cap'n, and now for him? He was full of surprises, but these were good ones. "Don't worry none about the crew. You been kinda rough on the Cap'n, and he's well-liked, but everyone knows he likes you like..." Gus struggled for the word for awhile. The silence when he did it didn't bother him any. "I don't recollect much about my pa, but I think it must be like that. And James--" Gus laughed a little bark of laughter, and his face was truly lit up. "He aint used to no feller besting him, and you did. He's mad about that, but not mad mad, just...the fellas been teasing him. I wish you would teach me to fight like that, since it is so unexpected."

He face grew serious again. "You don't need to be scared of the crew. I aint heard nobody saying nothing bad. You could give 'em all fight lessons, and they'd be happy for it."

Spot thought about this for a moment, which was rare enough. Usually he reacted first and left the thinking to people who had time for that. One thing was for sure, he would avoid that James guy for a while... preferably forever. Most of what Gus had said was beyond his understanding. So he did not even try. In his experience there was not much difference in mad or mad mad. One might hurt a little less, but both had better be avoided. "They want me off the ship as soon as possible, and I guess they are right. I don't have much luck with ships, or they with me." Suddenly he laughed when he tried to picture himself teaching anybody anything. "And if I really knew how to fight, I would not be here."

Laughter from Martin. Gus did not need to ask how long it had been. He would have to tell Cap'n Marcus about it. He wanted to hold the mood, so he changed subjects. "Name yer favorite tune. If you don't know the name, hum a bit of it, and I'll pick it up. I'll play that next time I get my hands on the fiddle." But he could not help adding, "And three to one, those are stiff for the best fighter. You got some respect, but I don't reckon anyone will admit that fer a bit yet. Now, about that tune?"

Songs, music; those had always been good for Martin. Only too often there had been none, or else he had not dared to even think about it. Not so now. Gus' approach to the topic made it easy. "Oh, I have a lot. What do you think of this...?"

Settling fully relaxed and comfortably against the wall he started to first hum and then sing a gentle ballad.

Calton had spent about a second looking after the boy as he ran off so suddenly, first puzzled and then more than a bit angry. No, he corrected himself, that Martin was not as unpredictable as a storm. He was far worse. But there was no time to pursue that thought. Already James had stepped forward and picked the Captain up. Together they him settled in his bed in no time.

He left Marcus with Doctor Javert while he quickly went outside again to talk to the crew. "Get back to work. The ship does not sail itself." After meeting a few concerned looks he added, a little less stern. "I will keep you informed."

With that he disappeared into the cabin again and allowed his face to show the deep worry that he felt. "Doc?"

Javert was not wasting time. He cut the shirt from Marcus, and told Calton to put a cool wet cloth on the Captain's forehead. Then he fully cut the bandage from Marcus' left hand. And swore. He had felt the heat from it before, outside on the deck. But now…it was grossly swollen, with several red lines running toward the wrist. The sword blade wounds and the bite were oozing bloody pus. "Not good," he said grimly. He looked up at Calton. "Help me get him tied down."

Calton swallowed once when he saw the infected wounds, and then again at the doctor's words. But then he nodded slowly and did as he was told. He worked fast, partly because it kept him from thinking. "How bad?" he asked quietly, just after they had finished and he placed a calm hand on his Captain's arm.

Javert was studying the hand, and concentrating. Everything was infected. Fingers, palm, back of hand...Gently he laid the hand on the bed and went to his bag of supplies. He fetched a rubber sheet, which he slid under the arm. He looked around, and pulled down a board from a shelf. He slid that under the arm as well, and began to tie the arm to the board. He stopped just below the elbow joint.

"I need a basin full of water, and another full of spirit. And a...an old bucket. Tourniquet. Clean cloths. A lot of bandages..." He turned, his voice strained, apologetic. "There is no saving it, Calton. His hand...I can not work miracles. I need to sterilize things, and get the bone saw."

Marcus was drifting in and out, twitching and muttering, lucidity for the most part gone. But even in delirium, he knew what it was that he saw held up. "NOOOOO!" he screamed, and fought to escape wherever he was. Tied down! He felt his arm atop a wood board. "Please, PLEASE!" he begged and tried to thrash. "Please, no. PLEASE DO NOT TAKE MY ARM! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" he cried and screamed at the same time.

At the scream, every crewman who heard turned ice cold inside, and afraid. Glances were exchanged, and the praying men began to pray. A few turned away and hid tears. Down in the galley, Angus found a stool to sit on and put his head in his floured hands and began to cry like a baby, for he remembered too well what it had been like to lose his leg. The ship, but for sounds of creaks and groans from wood, rigging and sail, was silent now. Everyone was listening, and everyone felt afraid.

Down in the hold the two young men had made it about halfway through the song, when suddenly something cut into the melody that the two voices were weaving in a fairly good harmony. Marcus' scream. It broke every bit of the peace and magic of the moment, and made their blood freeze. Spot instantly turned white as a sheet and he let out a short cry of his own. His instincts took over and he scurried into the farthest corner, and curled up into a shivering ball.

Gus tensed up, and while he was aware of Martin, he was also feeling a profound grief like he had never fully felt before. He moved over to the bars, and leaned against them, as close to the nearest human being as he could get. He drew his knees tighter, and hugged them, and he began to cry.

Javert instruments—including the saw—were soaking in pure spirit, to sterilize them. Basins of water were waiting. Marcus was crying in a quiet delirium, still muttering, "No, please."

The doctor signaled to Calton that he was ready. He took up a bottle of cloying liquid and poured some on a cloth. "It is ether. Put this over his nose and mouth. He has a knot on his head, so this is chancy, but I will not…cannot...do this if he is conscious. When he falls asleep, I need you to regulate the tourniquet. It is a little late to ask, but can you do it? I suggest you do not watch what I do."

Calton nodded again without a word. He could and would do whatever was necessary, quietly. That was what made him a good first mate. He took the cloth from Javert and was relieved when Marcus' struggle ceased soon. 'Do not think about it,' he told himself. There would be time for that later. Now, thinking would mean hesitation and loss of concentration, and that would be dangerous in the current situation. So he bit his lip and cleared his mind save for the orders given to him by Javert.

Not much more than a half hour later, Javert sat back when it was done and the last of the bandages applied. The bleeding was now minimal, and all looked good; the surgery had gone well. He wiped his hands on a towel, and then began to undo the straps holding Marcus down. "His fever should break within twelve hours, and after that, he should heal. He will heal." He turned to Calton. "Captain Calton, what are your orders?"

Calton had been leaning on the bed, glad it was over. He was now considering taking some rest - after giving the crew the promised news. Now his head snapped up. "What?" he asked, thinking that he might have misunderstood.

Doctor Javert put the last of the instruments in their alcohol bath, and washed away the last of the blood on his hands. He took off his gory apron, and tossed it in the bucket with other things to be thrown overboard. When that was done, he began to roll his sleeves back down.

Only then did he approach Calton. "First Officer assumes the Captaincy in such situations. Until and possibly if Marcus can resume his duties, you are Captain of the Black Arrow." He squeezed the man's shoulder and arm. "Marcus has complete faith in you. The ship and crew are in good hands..."

Javert swallowed. He would have trouble with that word for awhile.

Calton allowed himself a small groan before he pushed himself up. "Well... I had better go and tell the crew... twelve hours, you say?" In twelve hours they would know more. Marcus should be fine, but of course there was always some risk. And there was no telling how he would take the loss of one hand... Difficult times ahead. Calton sighed. They would face those problems if or when they arose. For now, he had to tell the crew, who were already waiting anxiously.

James made his way slowly down into the deep hold, and wiped back a tear and blew his nose as he reached his destination. Gus was scrambling to his feet, standing a little protectively in front of the hold door. He could see the kid curled up in the corner. "Uh," he said, and cleared his throat. "Thought you should know what Cap'n Calton just announced. Cap'n...Cap'n Marcus lost his left hand and wrist, and will be laid up for awhile. He came through okay. Doc thinks he will do fine now. I, uh, just thought you should know."

Now Spot, who at the sound of steps had tried to curl up a little further, raised his head for a moment, he had felt like he knew that voice... James! His breath caught in his throat as he looked at the man, wide eyed, without blinking. There might have been a tear shining in his eyes, but in the dim light that was hard to tell.

James was not sure what to make of Martin, but he smiled at the kid. "Um, sorry about yer knife before. I woulda give it back to ya, but I was cranky about you and getting teased. But that don't matter now. Some things aint that important, and I shoulda give it back to you. Anyways, Cap'n Marcus, he needs looking after when he wakes up, and we are taking turns."

Gus immediately said, "I will sit with him anytime. My duties are not set yet, so I can talk to Calt...Cap'n Calton, and take any time I'm not on duty."

Spot's mind reeled. What was this? Was this pirate apologizing to him? Now, that was something new. Spot was confused, but slowly he managed a nod and finally he had to start breathing again, too. Suddenly he was afraid of being alone down here. "Gus...!" He still seemed unable to move, but at least his voice was working, although shaking. "I don't have any duties," he said without thinking.

Gus turned and put one hand through the bars. "Thanks, James. I will talk to Martin a bit more, then come on up."

James nodded, then left, making his way slowly up to the main deck.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Gus turned to Martin. He avoided mentioning that he had picked up on his fear to be alone. "I don't have much yet, and my hammock is in the Captain's cabin. Anyone watching him will probably use it. Tell ya what, Martin. When I'm sitting with the Cap'n, you can come up there, and when I have to sleep, I can put up a hammock right out here."

James absence helped a lot, but still it was hard for Spot to relax. Panic took a long time to overcome, especially if he was not alone... but strangely Gus seemed to have a different effect. He did not feel like a threat, at least not right now. "You can use this one," he heard himself say.

Gus smiled. "Tell ya what. We'll work together to make another one. And then we'll both be comfortable. OH! I was supposed t' fetch you some supper. I know the doc will stay with Cap'n Marcus till the fever goes down. Docs always do that. Want to come with me to the other hold, under the galley? If you don't feel up to meeting Angus, you can hear what is said there. It won't feel like you are alone. And Angus, he knows Marcus is looking out for you like a pa. He'll give you extra."

"Pa?" That was the second time Gus had used that word. First uncle, then this…."I would not know," he murmured and finally fully uncurled, again wincing a little as he stretched. Gus had mentioned food, and Martin's stomach spoke a very clear language. Also, he had learned to take food when he could get it.

Gus fetching him supper...food sounded good, but he did not feel fully comfortable with the fetching part. "Uhm I will come with you…"

Unlocking the hold was surprisingly easy, but he could not bring himself to fully close the distance between him and Gus. What would happen when he met Angus no one could tell.

Gus understood on a level that did not require words to explain. He signaled with his hand. "C'mon, I can show you the way that avoids going above till we get to the galley. If ya want, I will stick with you the first few times you have to be above, because those are the hardest." On the way Spot found out that he and Gus seemed to have similar instincts concerning hiding places. He was leading him through passages that crossed the ship from larboard to port side, and pointed out some of the places along the way where he might feel safe hiding, if he ever wanted to do that. "Sometimes a fella needs be alone, and sometimes he don't want that. I like to pick places most people don't use, so these should be good." Spot noted those that he pointed out and a few more, which were a little stranger.

They could smell the galley by then. "Listen. We can hear if Angus is alone." They listened, for three minutes. "Aye, he is. Come on up and meet a pegleg Scotsman."

Now Martin was hesitating a bit more. But he nodded and motioned for Gus to take the lead still. If something went wrong, at least he would not get trapped between the two of them.

Gus was picking up so many clues from Martin now that he felt he knew his emotions, and those were important. He carefully put himself between Angus and Martin. "Angus, I brought the other new fella to meet you. This here is Martin, and he aint eaten for a long time."

Spot's stomach underlined Gus' words with a low growl. Yes, he was really hungry. He managed a smile, but did not go any nearer than necessary although over the course of the few minutes that it took Angus to ready the food he relaxed almost visibly.

Angus picked up on clues, too. It was good for a cook to do that. He nodded and grinned a greeting, but did not offer his hand. Instead, he filled two big bowls and put a plateful of slightly overcooked biscuits on a large tray, and added two big slices of apple pie, and a little plate of butter. He added a full waterskin. "A man has to eat. Martin, you feel hungry, you come to me and I give you as much as you can hold."

He stopped and leaned on the counter. "Sorry for the biscuits. I only just heard the news, and they...but the stew did not burn. I am right pleased to finally meet you, Martin. Now, off wi' you both, and fill those bellies. I know you'll want to go below, for fellas come in and out at this time of the evening." He nodded. "But if you want more, you just come back."

"Thank you, Sir," Martin said finally before he turned and hurried back, although not so fast that it could be called fleeing.

Gus turned back to Angus and shrugged, and gave him a pat on the shoulder. It said everything he needed to say, and Angus nodded. He handed Gus the spoons.

Gus followed Martin and caught up to him outside the hold. He held up a spoon with a grin.

Spot looked at Gus' grin for a moment, and then at the spoon, and finally a smile appeared on his lips. He had forgotten about the spoon! He thanked Gus and pushed open the door to the hold. "Come in," he said like someone who was inviting a friend to his home, before he comfortably settled himself with his back against the wall.

Gus handed over the spoon as soon as he entered the hold. He was not sure whether to close the door or not, so he left it slightly ajar, and gave Martin space as he too sat down against the wall. They ate in silence for awhile, and only once Gus commented on the biscuits, of which there were a generous eight. "Even a bit crusty, they are nice and soft inside." He only had two with the stew, leaving the others in case Martin wanted to store them away.

When he finished, he sat back against the wall, and looked up. "There's hooks so you can hang your hammock any way you like it. I saw an empty crate up top--if you want that for a place to put your clothes, that works out. I can bring that down to you. A lantern, and a privacy blanket, and you'd be okay. There's places to overhear what's going on abovedecks, so you can keep as much to yourself, or not, to suit how you feel. I'll kindof keep a bit of eye on you, to make sure have what you need. It's what a big brother would do. Not saying you need such, but it's always nice to have someone watching your back."

It was almost a miracle, but during the meal Spot had completely relaxed. He sat with his legs stretched out in font of him and his attention mostly on the food. Out of habit he was still watching the door, but that no longer ruled his actions. Now he turned to look at Gus, and although he did not tense again, he was serious when he said: "Watching other people's backs can be dangerous."

Gus closed his eyes, and all tension went out of him, except for the worry over Cap'n Marcus. But that would be with him awhile, and he accepted that. News would spread like a wave at his slightest change in condition, so he knew they would hear everything promptly. So he closed his eyes and relaxed into the corner, letting it prop him up. "I know," he answered Martin, but did not open his eyes. "Just, not watching them can be more dangerous."

"Have you been sent to keep an eye on me?" Spot asked, although his tone was not quite as suspicious as the question. He did not really care, not today.

Gus sighed. "Tomorrow will be long." He was feeling tired enough, he could fall asleep right there, right where he was. "I liked that song you taught me before. Right pretty tune. Ya got a good voice."

The mentioning of songs alone worked its magic. Martin smiled a little but then Gus spoke about his singing..."Do not tell anyone."

Gus opened one eye and grinned. "Why would I tell anyone? If you want anyone else to know, you'll tell 'em." He yawned widely, and stretched, and climbed to his feet. After he had piled the tray with empty bowls, he waved off the waterskin. "Keep it down here, for if ya get thirsty. You can keep it topped off from the water barrel. I better take this stuff back to the galley. I might be gone a half hour--have to get the stuff fer making another hammock. I'll get word on the Cap'n, too. If there is any. You got a lantern and matches? I'll scrounge some if you need anything, and bring that crate. Don't worry none if you're asleep when I get back; I'll be quiet as a mouse."

He indicated Martin's hammock. "Sure you don't want help hanging that?"

Spot, now getting sleepy himself, waved at the lantern. Yes, he was well equipped that way. He followed Gus' lead in getting to his feet, simply because he was not comfortable sitting there, while someone stood next to him. He shook his head and went over to pick up the hammock. "No, I will be fine," he said with a smile.

Gus nodded and opened the door, and then pulled it closed behind him. "G'nite, Martin. Be back in a bit, and hope you don't snore." He laughed, and carried the tray away, feeling heavy in his heart over Cap'n Marcus, and light in a different way. Seemed the ice was finally broken between him and Martin. He hoped it lasted, but expected, as with so many things, that it might be a bit of a bumpy ride. The road was never smooth for the wounded, and he realized in a way he could not explain in words that Martin was very wounded inside. He would take it one day at a time.

For a moment Spot just stood there, hammock in hand, and the smile on his face did not only stay, but widened a bit. Then he quickly opened the door and fastened the hammock outside. He had told Gus that he could have it, and he wanted them to know that he kept his word. That done he returned to the hold, locked the door and curled up in a corner to sleep. The day having been the way it had, with all the fear and excitement, he was asleep almost immediately.

Gus' errands took him awhile, but not quite the half hour he had expected. He took back the dishes and peeked in on the sleeping Cap'n Marcus. Doc Javert was changing the moist cloth on his patient's forehead, and nodded encouragingly at Gus. But the young man paled and swallowed when he saw, stretched out on the bed, Marcus' left arm which ended in a wrapped stump, supported by a pillow.

"We'll...I'll sit wi' him tomorrow, Sir," he said, and left, sobered.

Quickly he gathered up a blanket and pillow, and everything to make another hammock. Then he found the empty crate and returned to the hold, all but tiptoeing.

And he found Martin curled up in the corner of the hold, and the hammock hanging outside, for him to use. A slight smile formed, and Gus shook his head. Quietly, he put everything down, and reached inside the hold with the blanket and more or less tossed it over Martin. Then he climbed into the hammock, settled himself, and went to sleep.

tbc


End file.
